


Scars

by lemonsorbae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Asshole!Cas, Barebacking, Cigarettes, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, From Sex to Love, Hate at First Sight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Punk!Dean, Slow Burn, Tattoos, Underage Drinking, hipster!cas, snarky!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 147,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn’t answer to anybody about anything. Not about his ever changing hair color or tattoos, not his music, and definitely not about all the fucks he definitely doesn’t give. Of course, then he meets pretentious, skinny jean wearing, ugly sweater buying Castiel Edlund who’s hardest lot in life is probably alphabetizing inventory at his uncle’s record store, and suddenly Dean has to answer for everything.Castiel, on the other hand, had long since accepted his fate as an anti-social, directionless, and misunderstood soul, with his cat, Meg, and a bottle of whiskey being the only company he needed. But then fate threw him Dean, the abrasive, infuriating punk who wears guyliner, and walks around like the chip on his shoulder is something to be proud of, and Castiel’s carefully constructed life was turned ass over teakettle.After a heated exchange upon first meeting, a mutual loathing afterwards, and the glaring opposites in their lives, neither of them sees the point of mixing oil and water. Which would be all good and well, except neither of them seems to be able to stay away from the other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mbrry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbrry/gifts).



> I'd like to give a huge shout out and thank you to my artist [deancebra (Andy)](https://deancebra-art.tumblr.com/) for a) taking a chance on my story and b) creating incredible art to compliment it with. It has been great working with you, darling. Thank you for taking my head art and making it into real art. Please everyone go take a moment and give Andy some love for the stunning art she created. [Check out the art here.](https://deancebra-art.tumblr.com/post/179920657333/go-read-the-amazing-story-here-it-made-me-have)  
> Endless thank you's to my betas as well. [literaryoblivion](http://literaryoblivion.tumblr.com/) and [flyingcatstiel](http://flyingcatstiel.tumblr.com/) I cannot thank either of you enough for being a part of this project, and for taking the time to make this into something pretty.  
> Lastly I need to thank Char, despite her no longer being in the fandom. She was there with me at the beginning and it's widely because of her that this even exists.
> 
> Completed for the DeanCas Big Bang challenge 2018.

 

 

**_5 Years Ago_ **

It's raining again, thick, cool drops that cling to his eyelashes and slide down his barely worn suit, seeping through the fabric and making him feel soggy. The air smells earthy and clean, but the sky is a dark mess of angry clouds.

Sam's lanky frame shivers against his side, and Dean reaches out an arm to wrap around his younger brother's shoulders. It's cold for July – probably mid-seventies – and while huddled around the deep, empty grave where their father is about to be laid to rest, Dean's had about enough of the dreary weather.

If it hadn't been raining that night, his dad might still be alive.

They're gathered with the few friends and family John Winchester had, all five or six of them – most of them people who helped raised Sam and Dean when Dad couldn't - and all Dean really wants is to throw a shovel full of dirt over the small, wooden box his dad's remains are in and slip out from underneath the heavy curtain of sympathy shrouding the gravesite.

Not long before the service started, Bobby and Missouri had stood huddled together speaking lowly about 'what happens to the boys next'. They hadn't known Dean could hear them, but that might've been the worst part about the whole thing; Dean's an adult, almost – though he's been treated like an adult since about four years old, and that means he can take care of things like an adult. Like he always has.

They're fine, he and Sam. Dean started taking care of Sam long before their drunk father went and tried to be a hero, and the only thing that's different now is Dean won't have to take care of John, too. It's one less person for him to have to worry about, one less mouth to feed, and that's just fine.

Really.

Pastor Jim mutters some religious shit about John's soul being lain to rest and joining his wife’s in Heaven, and then Sam's passing John's remains to Bobby and the ashes are being lowered into the grave. Dean and Sam level in the first shovels full of dirt, Missouri, Ellen and Jo make a hushed goodbye, and then Bobby and Pastor Jim take over.

It's surreal, watching for the second time a parent's remains being covered in dirt, packed into the earth where they'll rest until the pine box wares away with the passing of time, and Dean feels like he's having some sort of outer body experience, watching but not really feeling. Just last week he and Dad were watching the game. And now John's dead. Just like that.

Sam sags against Dean's side in search of comfort, but all Dean can really do is tighten his grip on the kid and hope it's enough.

**:::**

It's been one week since John Winchester was put in the ground, and Dean's been teetering on the edge of losing his shit since the last bit of wet earth was heaved onto his dad's grave. The vigilant glances his way and the careful way people address him isn't helping the issue, and so when Bobby's got his back turned and Sam's tuned too much into some book or other to notice the outside world, Dean slips into the thick July dusk and treks through Bobby's salvage yard to where the Impala is parked and slides behind the wheel. It's the first time he's been inside the car since his father's death, and the familiar smell of leather and life seeps into him, enveloping him in memories.

He hasn't properly addressed his dad's death, barely holding himself together with a forged smile and a muttered "I'm fine" to anyone who so much as glances sympathetically in his direction, but settling into the Impala, the only token of his father's legacy he and Sam have, Dean's resolve begins to crack. He can't keep secrets from her. She was there after all.

"I guess you're mine now, Baby," he mutters to the car, running his hands over the well-loved steering wheel, fitting his fingers into the shallow grooves his father carved from years of driving.

All his life Dean had dreamt of the day the Impala would become his. He'd played the idea over, and over, and over again in his head, learning obsessively how to keep her a fine tuned and well oiled machine, and earnestly waiting for the day his dad would hand over the keys and tell Dean to, "Take care of her, son." But he had never imagined getting her like this, and now that he has her, it feels all wrong.

Dean climbs out of the car, closing the door behind him, and runs careful fingers along the shiny black paint as he moves to the front of the car. He presses his palms to the hood, the metal warm beneath his hands, and closes his eyes grasping for some semblance of comfort from the source he'd always been able to rely on in the past. Nothing comes, and Dean is left only with the throbbing ache in his chest and the knowledge that he's lost another parent - the only one he had left.

No matter how long it's felt like he and Sammy were on their own, they truly are now.

No mom, no dad, just a bright-eyed, angry sixteen-year-old, and a life-sodden twenty-year-old with holes inside of him that desperately need to be filled else another Winchester drink himself sick. But there's only anger inside Dean. Anger he's been keeping at bay since he watched his dad gasp his last dying breath, and he can't hold it back anymore; its persistent presence slamming past the dam he so feebly built against it and seeping into those holes, filling him with a desperate rage.

Dean blinks down at the Impala and sees red.

He stalks away from the car furiously only to return with a crowbar. The metal is warm and heavy in his hands, a welcoming weight to wrap his fists around, and as he surveys the Impala, his brain buzzes with the need to destroy, ruin, _desecrate –_ to create a mirror image of what Dean looks like on the inside.

He starts on the driver's side window, where his dad always sat, smashing into it with a ferocity he never knew he possessed. The glass cracks, long spider web fractures ebbing out from the shattered center, and once he's begun, he's unable to stop.

 

He takes the crowbar to the hood, nicking and splitting the metal with dent after agonizing dent, then lets loose on the window above the dash.

Sweat gathers on his chest and back, his upper arms, and around his hairline; his shoulder muscles groan in protest. But Dean doesn't stop, his blows growing more forceful, more damaging with every swing.

He loses himself in the destruction, the sound of titanium on metal ringing in his ears, the sight of the car shuddering under his vengeful touch. His eyes blur over with hot tears, but he lets them fall, ignoring them as they mix in with the dirt beneath his feet and drip onto the vandalized body of the Impala.

Time seems to slow down as he takes his anger out on one of the only constants he's ever known in his life, and Dean's not sure if it's been minutes, or hours, or days when the warm grip of someone's arms close firmly around his waist and pulls him away from the car. A voice is calling his name, Bobby's it sounds like, and Dean lets the crowbar slide from his grasp as his legs give out on him and he crumples into the dust and weeds.

Bobby goes with him, wrapping his arms around Dean's shoulders as Dean grabs fists full of the man's tattered plaid shirt and drops his forehead to Bobby's chest. His own chest is heaving heavily, the exertion of the beating finally catching up to him, and he closes his eyes against the strain, searching once more for something to ground him. The only thing he feels is guilt.

"Easy, son," Bobby soothes. "Easy."

"It's my fault, Bobby." Dean mutters, licking away the salty tears on his lips. He looks up at his surrogate father, wincing at the deep frown he sees on the man's face. "If I had- if I had just-" He chokes back another sob, shakes his head. "Dad should be alive right now," he states to the ground.

Neither of them moves, the minutes ticking on until Dean's breathing evens out, and he gruffly mutters, "I'm okay," for what feels like the millionth time in the past week.

Bobby eyes him incredulously but doesn't protest, instead turning his back and traipsing back inside with only one concerned backward glance.

When he hears the front door slam shut, Dean settles his back against a tire of the Impala, bringing a knee to his chest and resting his head against her body.

The sky has grown dark in the time he's been outside, crickets casting their nightly songs out into the universe, and Dean lets his eyelids slide shut against the normality of it all.

The air has turned warmer since the funeral, there's been no more rain to ease the heat of the summer, and without the breeze they'd enjoyed a few days prior, the atmosphere feels thick and pressing, like the Earth could open her gaping maw and swallow them all whole.

Dean ignores the sweat sliding down his back, soaking his thin t-shirt, and waits for a calm to settle throughout his body, remnants of adrenaline still pumping in his veins.

He's only been alone for several minutes when the creak of Bobby's screen door can be heard and then the fall of footsteps crunch through dirt and pebbles until Sam is standing in front of him, ridiculously long bangs in his eyes, and two sweating bottles of beer in his hands.

Sam sits down next to Dean and hands him a bottle, eyes scanning the night as Dean takes a long swig. When Sam raises his own bottle to his lips, Dean nudges him with an elbow.

"You're too young to drink," Dean states.

Sam doesn't even glance Dean's way as he points out, "So are you."

A small smile alights on Dean's face, the first he's worn in days, and Dean wraps his arm around his younger brother's neck and pulls Sam to his side, rubbing his knuckles obnoxiously over Sam's scalp. Sam lets out a yelp but doesn't pull away and the two of them sit quietly side by side until their beers are gone and the moon hangs high and glowing over their heads.

As Dean drifts off to sleep that night, shame and anguish still roiling through him, Dean wonders if he'll ever know what it's like to feel whole.

 

**\---**

 

**_1 1/2 Years Ago_ **

There are too many people in the house, all of them dressed like they're at a cocktail party rather than a Thanksgiving dinner, and Castiel can't look any of them in the eyes. Even if they are family.

His pain is still too fresh, too deep to allow for the conversation they would require, and the careful glances slid his way prick his skin, unwelcomed needles of sympathy.

 _Fuck them._ He thinks. _Fuck them all._

He slips out the backdoor and into the cool afternoon air, settles himself on the topmost porch step and stares out at the backyard. The world is bursting with color, oranges, and reds, and yellows, and his eyes rove instinctively, looking for the perfect frame, that one magic spot where all the light pours in through the branches of the trees, beautiful and golden.

After a moment the effort becomes futile. The colors melt to a dull and murky shade before disappearing completely, and his eyes fall to his hands where they rest in his lap, palms up and trembling.

They feel empty without the familiar weight of a camera, but the thought of snapping pictures now sends an aching hollowness radiating throughout his chest.

And it's only been four days.

 _Four days._  
_Four days._  
_Four days._ _  
_ Four days.

Behind him the back door opens, and someone comes to perch beside him, Ruby if the overwhelming scent of her perfume is anything to go by. Castiel scoots marginally to the left, giving her more room.

Ruby is the only one who hasn't apologized or treated him like he's a fine piece of china, and her normalcy - grating and bitchy as it is - is currently about the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I can't decide if it's sad or laughable that this Thanksgiving is just as stiff and horrible as all the others," she says, sipping from a champagne flute. "Why the fuck can't we just have a normal family?"

"This _is_ normal," Castiel offers, truth in its purest form despite the tragedy of it all.

Ruby laughs in agreement. "At least there's booze," she sighs.

Castiel shakes his head, eyes still trained on his hands, his thoughts spinning in his head like a hamster on a wheel. "Not enough."

There's a beat of silence as Ruby nods, draining the last of her champagne and setting the glass on the step beneath them. "Have you figured out your next move?" Her voice is quiet as she stretches her legs out in front of her and crosses them at the ankles. Castiel glances down at the towers she calls shoes and shakes his head.

"All I know is I don't want to be here, but my mother insists that I stay."

"Mommie Dearest always knows best," Ruby chimes sarcastically.

Castiel scrubs a hand through his hair, ruffling it beyond repair, and rests his hands on the step, pushing all of his weight onto his wrists and falling prisoner to the continuous line of thought still swirling around in his brain.

 _Four days._  
_Four days._  
_Four days._ _  
_ Four days.

"She's going to be the end of me," he mutters as his head clears marginally. Focusing on not thinking is more tedious than overthinking, and so he lets the mantra continue in his head.

Anyone else would tell him Naomi is doing her best, taking care of him the only way she knows how. But Ruby is not anyone else, and for that, Castiel is grateful. She reaches over, rests a hand on top of Castiel's hand - knowing - and squeezes, a reassurance he doesn't want but doesn’t reject.

"You coming to dinner?" Ruby stands, straightens her slim, black dress and brushes nonexistent particles from the front of it.

"No."

Ruby's dark eyes flash in his direction. "C'mon, cuz. Don't leave me to fend for myself against the Sopranos in there."

"I'd be of no use to you," he points out, his gaze falling back to the yellowing grass at his feet. There's a breeze now, rustling the leaves on the trees, and he feels cold, shivers in his pressed white shirt and skinny black tie. He curls his arms around himself and rests his elbows on his thighs, aching for the familiar weight of a bottle in his hand, the one coping mechanism that's even close to being enough so far.

"I'd warn you Naomi's going to come looking for you, but we both know that won't happen," Ruby says. "I'm gonna be stuck in the middle of the infamous Novak pissing contest while you sit out here and get away with drowning in your feelings."

Castiel blinks up at his cousin. "I'm fragile, Ruby, weren't you informed? No one wants to say the wrong thing, so they don't say anything at all."

"Yeah, well, you and I both know you should be suffering at that table right along with the rest of us."

"I'd prefer to suffer alone, thank you."

Ruby sighs. "And so, you shall." She rubs a hand through Castiel's hair, ruffling it further, and makes her way back inside, heels falling heavily on the wood porch as she goes.

Castiel stays on the back porch for a long time, memories eating up all the space inside his brain, and a lump too big to swallow clogging his throat. He wants to be stronger, he _should_ be stronger, but the emptiness that resides in his chest is just too encumbering, and Castiel is far too tired.

When night finally begins to creep upon the Earth, he leaves the porch and trudges towards his room, counting his footsteps as he goes.

_One, two, three, four..._

_Four days._  
_Four days._  
_Four days._ _  
_ Four days.

Loosening his tie, Castiel fumbles in the top of his closet until he finds the box he stores his liquor in, safely hidden from Naomi's judging eyes. The weight of her gaze has never bothered him before, but now he feels it on him constantly, unable to shake the bore of it against his skin.

She was never around when he was a child - unless it was to belittle him in one way or another - but now she's always there, tailing his every move with her brow pulled into a pained frown and words he doesn't want to hear dangling from her lips.

Castiel screws the top off the bottle and drinks until the world tilts sideways and his brain fogs over.

**:::**

He's jarred awake the next morning when the curtains on his window are thrown open, sunlight pouring in in a bright yellowy pillar. He cracks one eye open to find Naomi standing over his bed, hands on her hips and mouth pulled into a tight line. Even on her day off she's dressed in a smart pressed pants suit with her hair tucked up in a neat French twist. But she's standing too far to the left, and it's all Castiel can focus on.

"Where were you last night?" she asks.

Castiel squints at her, eyeing her from a different angle so she's centered. "On a bender," he bellows craggily. Her briery grey eyes fasten to Castiel's face, and he feels like he can't breathe, her gaze sweeping away all his air.

“You've got to stop behaving this way." Her voice is sharp, and Castiel groans at the sound. He rolls over, away from her and curls in on himself, closing his eyes and wishing he'd had the mind to change out of his Sunday best the night before, or at least get under the covers.

Naomi clicks her tongue at him and crosses the room, the soft slide of his closet doors being opened drawing his eyes open again. "It's time to go through all of this stuff," Naomi says. "I'm back to work tomorrow, and I'd like to see it done before then." She reaches into the closet, rifling through the clothes hanging there, and Castiel's stomach lurches.

"No," Castiel grits. He sits up as best he can and blinks against the slice of pain nudging just behind his left eye, the contents in his stomach threatening to spill. "Don't. Touch. Anything."

Naomi has half a mind to look pained when she glances at him over her shoulder. But the look is fleeting, fluidly replaced with her usual collected neutrality that Castiel has grown to hate over the years.

"It's time, son," she says quietly. Her hands fall to rest at her sides, defeated despite her words.

"Isn't that for me to decide? This isn't about you, Mother. You've already had your five minutes."

Naomi lets out a sigh. He expects her to pinch the bridge of her nose like she typically does when he's causing her stress, but she doesn't. Instead she just stands perusing the contents of the closet with a tired, tight-lipped expression and says nothing. After a moment she hefts another glance over her shoulder, barely meeting Castiel's eyes.

"You'll not be permitted to continue living like this, Castiel; not under my roof." She leaves the room in a tampered huff, closing the door behind her with a quiet - yet pronounced - click.

Castiel pulls the bottle of liquor off his nightstand and raises it in the air muttering, "And I thought we were getting along so nicely," before taking a swig and falling back into bed.

**:::**

_"You have four new voicemails. New message:_

_"Hey, Castiel, it's Daphne Allen. I was just calling to let you know if you want to take a break, you can. Things will be fine at the newspaper. We've got enough people to-"_

Castiel frowns at Daphne's kind voice falling in his ear in a tinny lilt and deletes the message without bothering to listen to any more of it.

_"Next message:_

_"Cassie, you can't ignore me forever..."_ \- Castiel feels cold all over at the sound of Balthazar's voice. He yanks the phone from his ear with the intent to delete the message, but he can't stop listening. With a shaky hand, he places the phone back to his ear, listens with his eyes screwed shut. _"- probably talk about this. I'm hurting too, you know. Bullocks, that's not what I intended to say, I'm just-"_ Balthazar heaves a sigh before continuing, " _I'm sorry, Cas. Just call me alright, darling? I'm worried about you."_  

Castiel deletes the message.

The next one is from a counselor at the school, and the final is another from Daphne.

 _"Me again,"_ she says gently, her tone cautious, like she knows her calls are unwelcomed. " _I know you're probably tired of us calling, but we just want to make sure you're okay... Balthazar said to tell you he's sorry,"_ she finally says, and it's probably the real reason she called to begin with. _"He wanted to tell you in person, but you won't answer his phone calls and-_ "

Castiel ends the call and hurls his phone into the air. It lands somewhere near the foot of his bed, a quiet thump in the otherwise silent room. Castiel throws an arm over his eyes counting the messages in his brain.

_Four messages._

_One._  
_Two._  
_Three._ _  
_ Four.

_Five._

_Five days._  
_Five days._  
_Five days._ _  
_ Five days.

If everyone would just leave him alone for one goddamn day maybe he'd have time to move on, pick up the pieces, and feel like he can breathe again.

Maybe.

**:::**

The following night Naomi arrives home in time for dinner. Castiel remembers eating with her in their dining room all of three times in his lifetime, and he almost prefers eating without her to the eerie silence that cloaks the room.

Naomi doesn't seem to be bothered, slicing her rosemary potatoes with the same clean precision she uses on her patients every day, but Castiel feels like the room is closing in on him. He pushes food around his plate, no desire to eat.

"Eat something," Naomi tells him, "you're beginning to look thin."

Castiel ignores her, eyes trained on the shiny surface of the table between them, carefully tracing the grain on each plank.

"I spoke with the dean on my lunch break," Naomi says, as if the stilted silence doesn't bother her at all. "I've arranged for you to be allowed the week off to get yourself in order before you'll need to return to school."

"I'm not going back," Castiel mutters.

Naomi sips at her water, unblinking. "Of course, you are. Your father has already paid for the full semester, it would be disrespectful of you not to finish; and a waste of money, but I'm sure that goes without mentioning."

Castiel's sure her words are meant to stir some sort of sympathetic driven guilt within him, but he only feels numb. And tired.

He doesn't care how his father will feel if his money goes to waste, or how disappointed his mother will be in him for dropping out when he's nearly finished. He simply does not care.

The only reason he went in the first place was because-

But it doesn't matter anymore.

"I'm not going back," he says again, eyes defiant on Naomi's. She frowns at him, seemingly confused by his refusal - no one ever says no to her - then purses her lips in disapproval.

"Then what," she counters, "what will you do instead? Traipse around the world with your camera?"

Castiel shrugs, poking at his asparagus. The thought of picking up his camera now is becoming an almost foreign concept. The idea doesn't put life in him like it used to, the world seeming too drab to even bother photographing. But he won't tell Naomi that, not when she gets such dissatisfaction out of his chosen career path.

Naomi shakes her head. It's the only sign she's getting frustrated with him - her face an otherwise mask of calm, and Castiel thinks, _At least this hasn't changed_.

"You know that's not realistic, Castiel," Naomi says, as if Castiel has confirmed that is indeed what he intends to do. "You need an education and a career, not a glorified hobby."

It's such a tired argument Castiel almost refrains from fighting back. Almost.

"Mother, you are alone for a reason," he replies coolly, standing and pulling his dishes from the table. "The sooner you realize you can't control people that don't want to be controlled, the sooner they'll stop leaving you." It's a low blow and he knows it, but the words are true all the same. They've been hanging in the air for years now, just waiting for whoever is brave - or cruel - enough to say them.

The flicker of sting in his mother's eyes would've been satisfying if it didn't make him feel so guilty, and with one final glance at her downturned mouth, Castiel retreats from the dining room too angry to even count his steps as he leaves.

**:::**

**_How's life with the harpy?_** Ruby's text draws Castiel from his thoughts, interrupts his intense staring match with the ceiling, and has him fumbling on the bed for his phone.

He knows Ruby's more interested in the family drama than she is his emotional well-being, but she does understand what life with a psychotic parent is like. Her father is Lucifer after all.

 _It's like I never left,_ he responds.

**_Bet you can't wait to go back to school, huh?_ **

**_Who knew overpriced educations and shitty dorm rooms could sound so good?_ **

_I'm not going back._ Castiel replies simply. His education had never meant as much to him as it had his parents, and while the past few years at Northwestern have been bearable, the idea of going back now turns his stomach sour.

Not going back has been the easiest decision he's ever made.

**_I bet Naomi loved that._ **

Castiel's lips twitch. _I don't think she thinks I'm serious._

There's a pause before Ruby's reply. **_How's your head?_ ** she asks, and it draws Castiel up short. So maybe she is concerned for his well-being.

 _Full,_ he admits. For the better part of his life nearly everyone in his family had shunned or ignored his "quirks." According to Naomi there wasn't anything wrong with him; his compulsions were for attention or born out of boredom. Even after an official diagnosis of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder when he was nine, Naomi was not to be deterred in believing Castiel was "just fine" - denying him the medication and help he needed. And after a while he learned how to manage it quietly, but being back under Naomi's roof, surrounded by his childhood, his rituals have returned full force. It's taking everything inside him to keep his fingers from tapping, desperate to count the movements.

If he sticks around much longer his will will surely bend.

 **_If you ever wanna disappear for awhile, I offer myself as a willing and able accomplice._ ** Ruby types back.

And even though his life is here, everything he has, everyone he knows is here, the idea of running away, becoming someone else and leaving all his problems behind is very, _very_ tempting.

**:::**

Castiel lasts the rest of the week at his mother's house. On the morning he's to return to school, he finds himself hunched over the toilet bowl in his bathroom, heaving up the half bottle of bourbon he'd downed the night before. He's not sure how long he slept or what time of day it is until Naomi appears above him, dressed for work, hands curled into tight fists at her side and her face dripping with disgust.

"I've had enough, Castiel," she glowers. "I invited you back into my home, so you could heal, not drink yourself to death. The disrespect I've seen from you since-" She stops, draws in a tight breath. "I'll not tolerate it any longer."

Castiel rests his cheek on the arm he's draped across the toilet seat. Cold sweat gathers on his forehead, and Naomi is swaying in and out of focus, her form blurry above him. "Alright mother, you win," he says with a half-smile crawling across his face. "I'll be your good little Stepford boy, just like you've always wanted."

"You will never be who I want you to be," Naomi spits, jaw rigid. "All you've ever been is an ungrateful, spoiled, selfish little child. What mother would want that?" And though the words don't bother Castiel - he's heard similar degradations his whole life - Naomi looks surprised with herself for admitting something so harsh. Why she's choosing now to have remorse for how conditional her love is for him is beyond Castiel, but it's too little, too late.

"Too bad the stork didn't give you a receipt when he dropped me off on your porch. Perhaps you could've exchanged me for a better son. Oh wait."

Naomi closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "I don't have time for this, Castiel," she says quietly. She almost sounds... defeated. "Get ready for class. We'll finish this discussion later."

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm not going back to school. I apologize; I could've sworn I mentioned it to you." He blinks up at his mother, watching her face distort into nothing short of furious. She crosses her arms across her chest, leaning a hip against the edge of the countertop.

When she speaks again her voice is eerily calm. "Your father and I work incredibly hard to be able to provide you with the finer things in life, Castiel - including a good education. You've never gone without; you've never known what it's like to struggle. If you're going to throw that away, you'll need to do it somewhere else. I will not continue to support your idleness."

"That's some ultimatum, Mother. Either be your good little hammer or you'll take an axe to my branch on the family tree."

Naomi says nothing, merely watches Castiel, her face void of expression. Honestly, it's a wonder this hasn't come to the surface until now. Naomi has never treated him as anything more than a mound of clay for her to mould into exactly what she wants him to be, and he's resisted her every step of the way; going left when she's said right, up when she's said down. So, what is it now that makes her think he'll say anything other than, "Start hacking, Mother."

"I assume you and your things will be gone by the time I get home then," Naomi states, like she's evicting an uncooperative tenant and not her own son. Then again, that's all Castiel is to her at this point; red she needs eliminated from her ledger. She doesn't wait for a response, doesn't offer time for a retort, simply turns on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom.

"I hope I grow up to be just like you someday," Castiel mutters to the empty room, though the idea of Naomi cutting him out feels... freeing.

~

 _SOS._ Castiel pockets his phone and tugs his bedroom window open, popping the screen out of place and dropping it carelessly into the bushes below. While he waits for his cousin to respond he lights up a cigarette and perches himself on the window sill, one leg bent at the knee, the other dangling outside.

 **_That was fast_ ** _,_ Ruby responds.

 _I'm officially a pariah,_ Castiel types out, blowing a stream of smoke past his lips. _No longer worthy to bear the Novak name._

**_Were you ever? ;)_ **

_Ha ha._

**_So, is it time to get gone?_ **

Castiel pauses before responding, considering what those words mean and wondering; can he do it? Can he really leave without looking back, rid himself of anything and everything that ties him to the Novak name and become someone else?

_It’s time._

When Ruby responds, Castiel grins down at the screen. **_Operation extract Frank Abagnale is underway._ **

 


	2. Chapter 2

_**Present Day** _

__

When Ruby saunters into Rapture Records, she's got a stack of purple papers in her hand and a surreptitious grin on her face.

Grins like that always mean Ruby's up to something.

She latches her eyes onto Castiel the minute she walks through the door, and by the time she's approaching the counter, Castiel can feel her smug excitement permeating the room. He tries his hardest not to give her the satisfaction of asking what it is she's so excited about, but when she remains dutifully by his side with her hands clutched around the pages like they hold the world, Castiel sighs, long and worn and asks, "What?"

"Sam Winchester is hosting my band's first show," she states thrusting the pages - flyers Castiel now realizes - at him. He takes them and glances down at them, eyes scanning quickly over the topmost one before looking back at his cousin.

"The Rubies?" he asks, voice laden with haughty sarcasm. "You mean there's more than one of you? And since when are you in a band?"

His comment earns him a punch in the shoulder, and Ruby grabs the flyers back from his ungrateful hands, stacking them in a meticulous pile on the counter in plain view of passersby.

"Since a few months ago," she explains, "and yes there are two Rubys in the band, hence the name."

"How original," Castiel mutters, counting down the cash till and recording the numbers for midday sales. "So, are you the new Heathers, or is this more of a Tegan and Sara arrangement?"

Ruby folds her arms across her chest. It's mid-July and hot as hell outside, but she's still clad in her trademark leather jacket and tight denim pants and Castiel vaguely wonders if that's why Sam Winchester agreed to this monstrosity in the first place. He's learned a man will do a lot for a girl in tight pants. He doesn't understand the appeal, but apparently, it's out there.

"We're not sisters, and we're not lesbians, so neither," she answers, annoyed. "We're better."

Castiel barely compresses his snicker.

Neither of them says anything while Castiel counts out quarters, and then because he hasn't rained on Ruby's parade enough today, he says, "So Sam Winchester…”

"Sam's cool," Ruby’s voice is all innocence and neutrality. She's been protesting for months against any type of harbored crush or relationship she and the moose-man might have, but Castiel thinks she doth protest too much. Especially if the amount of time Sam spends in Rapture Records while Ruby's on shift is anything to go by.

But Sam is nice, and helpful. Ruby could do so much worse.

Before Castiel can leave for the day Ruby stops him. "It's this weekend," she tells him, "you should come, be social for a change."

"You know how much I love social interaction," Castiel tells her slipping his messenger bag over his head and fitting the strap to his shoulder.

Ruby rolls her eyes at him, "Don't be such a loner, Castiel."

"I'm not a loner," Castiel counters, "I have a cat."

"Meg does not count for shit and you know it."

"Don't let her hear you say that."

"Whatever," Ruby bites back, glaring at him. When he doesn't leave, she cocks an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Castiel's heart rate picks up as he chews at his lower lip and blinks at the floor before asking, "Will you count the till?"

"How many times have you counted it already?" Ruby wonders, voice careful, understanding; Castiel still feels like an utter asshole for even asking.

"Three," he admits. He watches as Ruby pops the cash register open and pulls out the first stack of bills.

"Fourth time's the charm, right?"

"It's better than sixteen," Castiel offers. As he watches the money slide through Ruby's hands, his heart begins to slow to a bearable rhythm, and he lets out a breath.

"All there, Cas," Ruby says when she's finished.

Castiel nods once. "Thank you."

"Now you really have to come to the show," she states, pulling the top flyer from the pile and slapping it against his chest. Without waiting for his response, she disappears into the store.

At home the flyer gets tossed onto his coffee table where it lays forgotten, slowly disappearing beneath books and empty bottles of beer and liquor as the week progresses.

 

**\---**

 

 

Dean doesn't get Sam's text telling him he's going to be late for lunch until Dean's already idling by the curb outside the cafe. Dean shakes his head at the text.

 **_Quit messing around with your girlfriend and get your ass down here, I'm hungry_ ** _,_ Dean shoots back. Sam's the one that suggested Dean drive across town and meet him in the arts district in the first place. Dean would've been a hell of a lot more comfortable eating in their neck of the woods, but Sam had insisted on meeting in Moneyville, USA because, "I can ride the bus over, Dean."

Dean's already climbing out of the car when Sam's response comes through. _She's not my girlfriend. And you aren't going to die if you go a little longer without food. I'll be there soon. Go check out the record store or something while you wait._

Dean fires off a quick, _Bitch_ , in response then pockets his phone, taking in his surroundings. Grace Cafe - which, really, Sammy? - is nestled in between an antiquated movie theater and the record shop Sam mentioned, Rapture Records _._ Ignoring the vibrating in his pocket signaling another text from Sam, Dean ducks into the shop.

A bell chimes above the door when Dean walks in, and he's immediately enveloped in the cloying scent of patchouli curling through the air.

There aren't many people inside, but they're all dressed similarly to one another--layered in mismatched patterns and too tight jeans or oversized sweaters even though it's 80 fucking degrees outside, and they all give Dean the same disapproving stare when the door bangs shut behind him. "Fucking rich ass hipsters," he mutters under his breath because for a group of people trying so desperately to be unique, they're all hilariously the same - dressing and acting as if they're all living paycheck to paycheck when really, they've got trust funds and rich daddies that shoot hundred dollar bills out of their asses.

He shoulders the weight of their scrutiny like a pro, used to sticking out with his all black garb and brightly colored hair, and moves further into the shop, offering a wink to a girl who's staring particularly hard and chuckling satisfactorily when she blushes and looks away.

With a name like Rapture Records, Dean assumed they'd have at least _some_ kind of decent music, but now that he's inside, seeing the store in its entirety, it's obvious that may have been a hasty assumption.

Judging by the number of photos of shaggy, bearded dudes standing in wild flower fields adorning the walls, and the sounds of moody and undecipherable lyrics filling every corner of the shop, Dean doubts they carry anything other than obscure indie bands and tortuously cliché hippie music in their abundant stock.

And nothing seems to be labeled. Awesome.

Shuffling through a few of the albums, he can't make heads or tails of what genre he's even looking at. "Hey, you know if these guys carry hard rock?" he asks the dude next to him, some skinny kid in black, thick rimmed glasses Dean just _knows_ aren't prescription, and a Bob Dylan t-shirt that's probably three sizes too big for him.

"He might." The kid nods towards the front of the store. Dean's gaze follows the movement, landing on what seems to be the only employee in the shop. But with ear buds in his ears and his nose buried in a National Geographic, the guy obviously has no intention of helping anyone.

Dean approaches him anyway.

It's not much of a surprise when the guy doesn't even look at Dean, scratching at the five o'clock shadow on his jaw as he turns a page in his magazine, so Dean takes the opportunity to size the guy up. From where he stands, Dean can see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from the swooping vee of the man’s t-shirt, strange tube-like things, inky black against his skin. His wild dark hair is barely contained beneath the navy slouch beanie hanging off his head, and Dean isn't ashamed to admit the guy's not bad to look at.

"Hey." Dean drums a knuckle on the counter attempting to get the guy's attention but receives nothing in response.

The seconds tick on, and aside from the quick flick of the man’s eyes to Dean’s face before returning to the pages of his magazine, Dean goes unacknowledged. He clears his throat, if a little obnoxiously, and the man shifts in his seat but doesn't look up again.

He turns another page.

Everyone else in the damn store has gawked at Dean like he's a fucking real-life liger, but this guy - the one person he wants to look at him - won't. Dean itches with the need to be seen - to _win_ this unspoken challenge that's been placed before him, so getting the asshole to just look at Dean takes front and center in his mind, whatever other reasons he approached the guy in the first place falling to the wayside.

Dean rests an arm on the counter, leaning in close to pull an ear bud out of the guy's ear and flick his magazine shut right underneath his nose.

Finally, Dean is met with the other man's perturbed stare.

Dean offers him a flirtatious smile that works on just about everyone except, it appears, for this guy. “I’m looking for some hard rock,” he says, ignoring the look of downright annoyance on the man's (stupidly beautiful) face, “AC/DC, maybe some Sabbath?”

The man doesn’t answer, his stormy blue eyes roaming over Dean, studying intensely the bright blue faux hawk Dean’s sporting and his assortment of piercings. His gaze is mostly blank, almost like he’s looking at Dean but not seeing him, but there’s a hint of disapproval lurking in his eyes - nothing short of what Dean expected.

Dean raises his eyebrows pushing for an answer.

“Did you try the _hard rock_ section?” the guy finally deadpans, pulling his magazine back open with an enunciated snap.

Dean straightens and looks around the shop, daring the nonexistent signs to show themselves. When he sees nothing, he turns back and flashes the man a saccharine smile.

“And where might that be, sweetheart?”

The guy squints at Dean, tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to decide if Dean’s being serious. Dean just keeps on smiling. Finally, the guy stands from his stool and stalks out from behind the counter. He begins to walk away, but when Dean doesn’t immediately follow, he turns and looks over his shoulder.

“You coming or not, _Freckles_?”

Dean kind of wants to kick himself in the ass for the light blush that steals across his cheeks.

The guy stops in front of one of the many record displays and makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “This, is the hard rock section,” he says, “hence the label ‘ _hard rock_.’” And as soon as the man goes to point out the actual label, Dean sees it. It’s small and discreet, but it’s there.

Clearly put out for being pulled away from the enthralling piece of literature he'd been devouring, the man turns and retreats to the register. Dean watches him walk away, catches a brief glimpse of burnt auburn colored feathers with tattered ends inked into the man’s skin starting at the elbows and disappearing under the sleeves of his t-shirt, and he shakes his head.

“Dick,” Dean mumbles. He turns his attention to the records then, but the employee isn't far from his thoughts as he browses. The guy may be easy on the eyes (really, _really_ easy), but his sparkling personality is definitely not worth the trouble.

The section is scarce - which doesn't surprise Dean at all - but he manages to find a Def Leppard album he doesn't have and a Bon Jovi album he'll never admit to owning, so it's not a total loss.

It's been a good several minutes when the bell above the door chimes, and Dean turns towards the sound, watching as his Sasquatch of a brother lumbers into the store. He offers a small wave to Dean, but then heads straight for the register, a smile stretching wide across his face.

"Hey, Castiel!" Dean hears his brother practically squeal to the man behind the counter, and he inwardly groans because _of course_ Sam knows the asshole.

He gathers his records and approaches the register where Sam is rambling on about the house show they're hosting for Sam's "not-girlfriend's" band. Dean clears his throat, stopping Sam mid-sentence as he looks Dean's way.

"Dean, have you met Castiel?" he asks. The man, _Castiel_ , flicks his eyes to meet Dean's briefly before his gaze slides back to Sam.

Dean grunts in response.

"Castiel, this jerk is my brother, Dean," Sam introduces tightly. He eyes Dean with teeth clenched through a smile, his expression saying don't-you-dare-embarrass-me. Dean only rolls his eyes at his brother, so Sam turns back to Castiel. "Dean, Castiel."

Castiel nods in Dean's direction but doesn't even give him the courtesy of meeting his gaze again. Sam doesn't seem to notice.

"Castiel is Ruby's cousin," Sam explains. "We met what, a couple months ago?"

Castiel offers a short nod and Dean runs a hand over his mouth, so that's how Sam knows the dick.

"That's great, Sammy," Dean says feeling just this side of irritated, "but if you could cut the gab session short, I'm hungry." He tosses his records on the counter. "Just these," he mutters, pulling out his wallet not bothering to look at Castiel; not that the douche would notice anyway since his eyes seem to be allergic to Dean's face.

"Fifteen dollars," comes the deep rumble from behind the counter. Dean's eyes snap forward then, and he gawks at Castiel.

"Say what now?" he asks.

"Two records, seven-fifty each, fifteen dollars," Castiel explains slowly like the math could be lost on Dean if he said it any faster. "No tax." It's added as almost an afterthought, like the store not charging the few extra cents for tax is a huge service to its patrons.

"That's a-fucking-lot for two records," Dean states. "I could get 'em for two bucks from Craig down at the Music Shop."

"Then go get them from Craig," Castiel responds, voice bored. "I'm sure he’ll be grateful for your four dollars. You'll even have money left over for some more hair dye. Although," he continues, "you should try red next time. The blue dulls your eyes."

Sam snorts back a laugh, and Dean throws a twenty on the counter, glaring at Castiel. What would he know about Dean's eyes? He hasn't even looked at them for more than a few seconds.

"Does the sarcasm come free here, or is that another seven-fifty?" Dean barks as he accepts his change and pulls the records off the counter, refusing a bag.

"It comes complimentary as I have plenty to spare."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," Dean mutters shoving his wallet back in his pocket.

"Chill out, Dean," Sam tuts, giving his brother another _look_ before turning to Castiel, "We'll see you this weekend?" he asks hopefully.

"I'll think about it," Castiel concedes, "bye, Sam." His eyes are already on his National Geographic, searching for his place, when he mutters, "And enjoy your over-priced records, Dean. I don't know where we'd be without your fifteen dollars."

Whether or not Dean was meant to hear it, the statement is dripping with insult, and what little patience Dean was clinging to snaps. He charges the register, getting right up in Castiel's face, their noses mere inches apart. Castiel doesn't even flinch.

"What is your problem, asshole?" Dean growls. He's sure people are staring, but he's finally got Castiel's full attention and he ain't backing down now.

Castiel snaps his magazine shut longingly like he may never again get a spare moment to finish it. "I have a problem with arrogant pricks who waste my time," he retorts evenly as if he and Dean are discussing the weather.

" _Waste your time?_ " Dean parrots back. "Buddy, you _work_ here. It's your _job_ to help customers. I don't know where the fuck you get your work ethic from, but not all of us have had the privilege of growing up spoiled and rolling in money. Out in the real world, we earn our money."

"This real world sounds riveting. Do you have a pamphlet or something I can look at? I'd love to learn more." Castiel's voice remains disinterested, but irritation sparks in his eyes. Obviously, something Dean's said has hit a nerve. Feeling victorious, he beams at Castiel, a cocky grin tugging at his lips that not even the narrowing of Castiel's eyes can erase.

"Perhaps, _Dean Winchester_ , if you have a problem with our _privilege_ as you so mentioned, you should spend your hard-earned money elsewhere. Obviously ‘we’ aren't worthy of it."

Replacing his annoyance, Dean's whole body thrums with excitement, blood pounding hard in his veins. Scratch whatever the fuck he said about the guy not being worth the trouble. He gives Castiel a once over, appreciating the glare in his eyes and the malice in his stance. With the guy so worked up the way he is, Dean must admit, he's more than a little turned on _goddammit_.

He always has been a sucker for the feisty ones.

Behind him, his brother lets out an embarrassed groan and wraps a mammoth hand around Dean's shoulder. "Dean, c'mon, let's go," he pleads quietly.

"Yes, Dean. You've wasted far too much of my time. Go boast your blue-collar pride somewhere else."

Rather than retort, Dean winks at Castiel. "Be seein' ya sweetheart," he offers with a smirk before he allows Sam to shove him roughly towards the door.

Castiel doesn't respond, but Dean walks easily after Sam's hunched form with a satisfied lilt to his step.

Dean follows his brother into Grace Cafe where there's a willowy redhead looking up at them from her place behind the counter. She gives them the usual once over, assessing their clothes, their hair, Sam's visible tattoos, and then goes back to whatever it was she was working on before they walked in.

"I can't believe you did that, Dean," Sam grumbles as they approach the counter. "Cas is a nice guy!"

Dean scoffs at that and glances at the menu hanging above the register. They don't have anything with red meat, which of course they don't, and it looks like the closest he's getting to a burger is the grilled chicken and avocado sandwich. "Cas is not a nice guy, Sammy; he's a cocky little princess." As much fun as it was fighting with the guy, Dean knows his type.

"Dean, you don't even know anything about him."

"Oh, and he knows so much about me? You were in that store, Sam. You saw how he talked to me. The guy's not exactly innocent. But you go ahead and continue defending his honor. That's fine, I can take care of myself."

Sam's only response is the I'm-so-done-with-you roll of his eyes, and then, he's ordering his food and abandoning Dean at the counter to find them a table.

Sam's seated near the windows, bright, warm sunshine slanting in through the blinds, and he doesn't even let Dean get settled before he's bringing up Castiel again.

"He lives alone, you know, above the record store. Ruby says he doesn't go out much other than to drink by himself and catch a few shows here and there."

"Why are we still talking about him?" Dean asks, looking around the cafe. It's slightly less offensive than the record store, more hokey, really, than hipster, but it still gives Dean the heebie jeebies.

"Because if he comes on Saturday, I want you to be nice to him; he's my friend, Dean. I don't want you to scare him off." Sam takes a few gulps of his water before continuing, "Ruby says he's got a lot of shit going on so he probably doesn't need you harassing him."

Dean ignores Sam's comment and waggles his eyebrows, tipping his soda against his lips and taking a pull from the bottle. "Again with the Ruby talk. I thought she wasn't your girlfriend."

"She's not, Dean." Sam looks down at the table. "We're just hanging out."

"That why you offered to host a house show for her band this weekend, Romeo? Because you're ‘just hanging out?’"

Sam doesn't get a chance to answer as a young kid, Alfie, his name tag says, brings their food and offers them a big smile. Dean shoots Sam's Caesar salad a disparaging look and then eyes his own chicken sandwich and sweet potato fries warily. The dish looks full on _healthy,_ Michelle Obama would be proud, but it smells pretty fucking good. Not that Dean's going to admit _that_.

“Anyway," Sam continues once Alfie’s left their table, "if he comes this weekend, I want him to feel comfortable. Just don't be an ass to him, okay? And for the love of God, do not try to sleep with him."

Dean nearly chokes on the too-large bite of sandwich in his mouth before he spits, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You always sleep with my friends, Dean," Sam mutters, his voice all irritated and wronged, "and you never call them back, and then they're always awkward around me."

Dean flicks through his last few sexual rendezvous realizing three of the four of them had been some chick Sam had brought over for a study group or introduced Dean to at a party. "Well Sammy," he states, "maybe you should get friends who are more immune to the Dean Winchester charm."

"Maybe you should just keep it in your pants every once in a while," Sam shoots back, and he's probably right, Dean should be choosier about who he brings home, but whatever. He's a young, attractive, red-blooded male, and he has needs.

"The heart wants what the heart wants," Dean counters, flashing a knowing grin.

Sam scoffs around the lip of his water bottle. "It's not your heart I'm worried about, Dean; it's your dick."

"Trust me, Sammy. Ain't nothin' to worry about down there. 'Sides, who says I even wanna sleep with him? He's a cactus, Sam. Prickly little fucker."

"I saw the way you looked at him, Dean. You got that glint in your eye you always get when you're about to try and flirt your way into someone's pants. It's gross."

Ignoring how close to being right Sam is, Dean chuckles. "You're just jealous it's that easy for me."

Sam sighs. "Whatever."

The table falls silent, Sam shoveling forks full of salad into his mouth, while Dean devours his sandwich, which turns out to be just as good as it smells, and Dean thinks he's off the hook when Sam's opening his mouth again and asking quietly, "So are we going to talk about it?" His expression has gone all non-judgmental and understanding, and if he didn't look so damned anxious, Dean would kick him under the table for even attempting the conversation.

Dean feigns innocence. "Talk about what?"

Sam fixes him with a stare that tells Dean he sees right through the act and then humors him anyway, "The five-year anniversary of Dad's death is tomorrow, Dean."

"Yeah, and? What's there to talk about? He's dead."

Sam shrugs, opening his mouth wide around another bite of salad. "I don't know," he answers when he's finished chewing. Dean mentally pats himself on the back for raising such a polite young man. "Maybe we could talk about driving out to his and Mom's graves."

"That's six hours away, Sam," Dean points out.

"So. They're our parents, Dean. We should pay them our respects."

Dean shakes his head and looks regretfully down at his plate. He's running out of sandwich to occupy his mouth with, which means this conversation needs to come to an end soon. "Dad was only a part-time parent," he counters, "and I can pay my respects just fine from here, at the garage."

"You're just saying that because you still feel guilty," Sam says, voice careful. "But maybe this could give you closure, Dean."

Dean's hackles instantly rise at the words, his heart pounding a bit faster than normal. "Yeah, Sammy? You know how I'm feeling? Then you'll already know I feel like kicking your ass for even assuming you know how I'm feeling."

Sam stares at him for a good few minutes, his expression slightly pained, before muttering, "Fine. I'll go alone."

"Oh, really?" Dean wipes fry grease from his fingers with a flimsy paper napkin - damn thing’s probably organic. "And how are you going to get there?"

"I'll take the bus."

Dean throws his napkin on the table with an angry flick of his wrist and leans forward in his chair, fixing his eyes on Sam's face, irritation over the whole damn conversation - and yes, guilt - eating him up inside. "Dammit, Sammy," he growls, "you're not riding a bus for 12 hours just to go cry over Dad's grave, okay? And you're sure as hell not missing school for it."

"I'm twenty-one-years old, Dean. Pretty sure that's of legal age to make my own decisions," Sam shoots back, a look of defiance on his face. "There isn't anything you can do to stop me from going tomorrow. Either you go with me or I'll take the bus, but I'm going."

Dean leans back in his chair, pursing his lips and peering outside. "Yeah well, say hi to ‘em for me, huh?"

There are a few fries left on Dean's plate, but he's lost his appetite. He and Sam rarely used to fight like they do now, and Dean misses the days when his baby brother looked at him like he hung the moon, never questioned a thing Dean said. Back before their dad was six feet under because of Dean.

Sam pushes lettuce around on his plate, and Dean glances at his watch. "I gotta get back," he says, "you finished?" Sam nods without meeting Dean's gaze.

The ride home is filled with a stilted silence, and when Dean hears Sam leave earlier than usual the next morning, he doesn't even get out of bed to say goodbye.

**:::**

Dean spends the day pointedly not thinking about his fight with Sam or his Dad's death, pounding out his irritation on the cracked radiator of an ancient Toyota Camry that would be better served in an impound lot than Bobby's garage.

Bobby hovers around him like a vulture for most the morning, watching him from a corner or casting furtive glances Dean's way, and by mid-afternoon, Dean's about as irritated with him as he is with everything else. When Bobby sidles up to Dean's side just after one o'clock, Dean fixes him with a glare.

"You got something to say, Bobby?" he grates out.

Bobby scowls at him, a practiced, ugly old thing, and snaps back, "Don't be pissy with me, boy, I haven't said one word to you since you dragged your little ray of sunshine ass through the door this morning."

"Yeah, well, don't think I haven't seen you riding it all day," Dean grumbles, voice less angry than before.

Bobby shakes his head but produces no counter remark. After a few seconds of silence, he says, "Your brother called, said he made it there okay. He should be home around eleven tonight."

Dean wants to lash out again, to ask why he should care, but he doesn't. He simply nods and says, "Awesome," then sticks his head back under the hood where he can think more clearly.

~

When Sam gets home that night he goes straight into his bedroom but leaves the door open, and Dean knows it’s an open invitation to talk if he wants to. Dean lies on his bed for a good few minutes, hands on his chest, staring up at the ceiling before he wanders out of his room, across the hall, and into Sam's doorway. He raps a knuckle against the frame a couple of times and then leans his weight against it.

"How was your trip?" Dean asks when Sam looks up at him from where he's seated on his bed.

"It was uh-" Sam clears his throat, the elephant in the room pressing against the both of them from all angles and filling up all the empty space between them. Dean feels twitchy but remains still. "It was good. – Missouri’s got an ear full for you next time you see her."

Dean chuckles, folds his arms over his chest, "’Course she does." His brain is full of things he needs to say, but his mouth is stubborn, and he just can't make the words come out. But Sam seems to understand.

"Listen, Dean, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did about you feeling guilty. And I shouldn't have acted the way I did."

Dean sags with the weight of Sam's words. Sam shouldn't be the one apologizing; Dean knows that. "No, Sammy, you were right," he admits. "I do feel guilty. That ain't gonna go away with a twelve-hour trip down memory lane. Hell, it may never go away. But you don't share in that guilt, and you're an adult and I should start treating you like one." The words are carved from him, practically dragged from his throat, but they're true. Dean scratches his thumb across the peeling paint of Sam's door jamb avoiding eye contact but continues. "It's just hard for me to get used to you being all grown up and standing on your own, you know? You used to be this tiny little thing that needed me for everything, and then I blinked, and now you're the size of an overgrown moose and you don't need me anymore. Still not sure what to do with that."

Sam stands from the bed and crosses the room in two gigantic steps. He stands in front of Dean and looks the couple inches down at him, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder, his eyes reassuring. "Dean," he says, "just because I'm older now doesn't mean I don't need you anymore."

"Don't patronize me, Sammy," Dean mutters, waving Sam's hand away and giving his brother a small smile, "I know I'm just your embarrassing, much better looking, older brother who sleeps with all your friends."

Sam smiles back with a shake of his head, his ridiculous hair falling into his eyes as he does so.

"You're gonna hug me now, aren't you?" Dean asks.

"Oh, come on, Dean," Sam jabs, "I thought you wuved hugs."

"I was four years old!" Dean protests as his brother wraps his octopus arms around him and crushes him against his chest. "Mom _made_ me wear that shirt!"

When they pull away Dean shoves at Sam's shoulder good naturedly. "You hungry?" he asks.

Sam nods, "Starving."

 


	3. Chapter 3

All Ruby has talked about since Monday afternoon is her house show at Sam Winchester's. She's invited everyone she knows and handed out flyers to everyone she doesn't, and by the time Saturday evening rolls around, Castiel's certain she's invited the entire city. Surely, the Winchesters will love that.

It isn't until they're closing the shop, straightening records and vacuuming the threadbare carpets, that Ruby pins Castiel with her deep, brown eyes. "You're coming tonight, right?" she interrogates. "Sam told me he invited you, too."

Castiel's been dreading this inevitable moment all week, and now that it's finally arrived, he's at a loss for what to say. He'd spent the past several days drumming up believable excuses, but now they're all dying on his tongue - though it's not as if he needs one. He's been existing near Ruby for over a year now; she knows he prefers to keep to himself, yet she seems hell bent to get him out of his shoebox apartment and socialize.

Castiel hates socializing.

He picks up a stack of records and leafs through them, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe."

The argument he was bracing himself for never comes, which is entirely too suspicious, and Ruby doesn't mention the show again until they're both walking out the door. As Castiel locks up, Ruby heads for her car, throwing over her shoulder, "I _will_ make your life a living hell if you don't show tonight, Cas. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the point of you leaving home was to-"

“You’re wrong.”

Ruby turns to face him, a subtle glare on her face. “Fine. Don’t come. It’s your life you’re wasting sitting up there all alone, not mine.” She turns and walks briskly to her car without another word. Of course, she wasn't going to just let it go.

~

Ruby's show started an hour ago. The sky outside has turned inky black, bright stars twinkling, and since then, Castiel's been arguing with himself over whether or not he should make an appearance. His cat, Meg, jumps up on the couch where Castiel's sprawled out, one leg dangling off the edge, and one arm thrown over his eyes. She walks around in a circle on his stomach before plopping down like he's simply another piece of furniture.

Castiel lifts his arm and cracks an eye open at her. "What do you want?" he mutters.

She curls her tail around her body, puts her head down and closes her eyes, ignoring him.

Castiel covers his eyes again.

He's been on edge all evening, the quiet emptiness of his apartment curling around him, settling on his chest, making his skin feel too tight and his brain too full. Normally, it's that feeling that finds him hunched over a glass at Shurley's, or high out of his mind, but tonight Ruby's words and Sam's hopeful expression won't stop echoing through his brain, and something akin to guilt has settled on his conscience.

He hates feeling guilty. And really, he doesn’t even know what to feel guilty for.

His cell phone vibrates with a new message, and he groans to himself as he reads it and the other two he's been avoiding for a handful of minutes now. Of course, they're all from Ruby.

**_C'mon, Cas. It's time to get back in the saddle. You've been a hermit long enough. I know I said I don’t care, but I do._ **

**_You should know that._ **

**_And because I know you're not about to do anything for me out of the goodness of your heart I'm offering the incentive of alcohol._ **

**_Hope you're on your way. Would hate to have to text you every three minutes until you're here._ **

**_You can thank me later._ **

_For what? Harassing me?_

**_No._ ** Is Ruby’s response. **_For strongly encouraging you to be a human._ **

Castiel types back a quick _fuck off_ and sighs. He flirts with the idea of just switching off his phone all together, but instead rolls off the couch, earning himself a disparaging hiss from Meg, and retreats to his dresser.

He pulls on a pair of deep red skinny jeans and an oversized multi-colored sweater and calls a cab, grabbing a beanie on his way out of the apartment.

~

When his cab pulls up in front of the Winchester’s, the place is swarming with people, and Castiel wonders if he's made a wise decision, putting himself in the middle of a crowd when he's already feeling anxious.

He stares out the window, hand poised over the door handle.

The cab driver's raspy voice sounds from the front seat, “You gettin’ out or not, kid?”

"The meter's still running," Castiel points out coolly, "doesn't that mean I'm paying you to idle?"

The cabbie doesn’t respond, diverting his gaze from the rear-view mirror leaving Castiel to stare up at the two-story house in peace. Music is wafting out from the windows, and through the open front door a dance-punk like beat seeps into the cab.

With a laborious sigh, Castiel pushes the door open, digging some cash out of his pocket and thrusting it at the cab driver before sliding out of the car. He takes a step towards the house. This was a bad idea.

The familiar feeling that he's not in control circles around Castiel's head, heart rate picking up, breaths growing short and quick. He should leave now, return to the comfort of his own four walls where everything is more manageable.

His fingers twitch.

He doesn't want to tap, knows it’s only a temporary fix, but the urge is so strong.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Castiel pushes past the drunken people that litter the walk way - almost all of them with extreme hair colors, or excessive piercings, or both - and makes his way inside.

The house is bellowing with music, the sounds of guitars and a set of drums vibrating through the walls. Castiel follows the wailing of instruments down a flight of stairs and into a basement.

Picking a trail through the throngs of people, Castiel winces. It's far too loud, bodies everywhere, and he feels exposed surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces. He squints at the smoky surroundings, spotting Sam almost immediately where he's towering near the makeshift stage at the front of the room.

For a moment, Castiel intends to say hi but stops after only a few steps when he sees Dean not too far off from where Sam stands. Bristling at the memory of his last exchange with the elder Winchester, Castiel heads for the bar instead, sliding onto a vacant bar stool.

Behind the counter, two girls weave and bob out of each other's way, mixing drinks and laughing at jokes only they are privy to.

When the taller of the two approaches him and flashes him a coy smile, he simply stares at her.

"So handsome, what'll it be?" she asks when it's clear Castiel has nothing to say.

"Beer?" Castiel questions because he either needs to get the hell out of this basement or start in on the alcohol ASAP.

"Budweiser, Coors, and Brew Dog," the girl rambles off.

Castiel shakes his head at the selection drawing the attention of the other bartender, a girl with an edgy haircut that's colored just about every color in the rainbow. She's small, but her eyes are daggers, glinting at him over the bar top.

"I saw that, _pretty boy_ ," she shouts over the wail of the music. "What did you expect, PBR?"

Castiel narrows his eyes. "I am not a fucking stereotype," he bites.

"Oh, really. What's your brew of choice then, hm? - Wait, let me guess. Clearly, you're from the arts district so you probably frequent... Shurley's, that bar in the revamped church that brews their own beer. Am I right, or am I right?"

Castiel's gaze flits to the countertop, giving him away before he sighs, "Coors is fine."

The smaller bartender grins at him, her brown eyes flashing triumphantly, and sticks out a hand.

"I'm Jo," she says, "and that,” she gestures over her shoulder to the bartender whose left to get his beer, “is Tessa."

Castiel reluctantly shakes Jo's hand and ducks his head in hello to Tessa. She smiles at him again, sliding an opened Coors across the counter to his open and waiting palm.

"So, I gotta ask," Jo continues, voice loud enough to carry over the music. "Who the fuck invited you? This isn't exactly your crowd."

And though Castiel doesn't really have a crowd, she isn't wrong. There are a few people here that he's seen maybe once or twice at the record store or somewhere else closer to home – friends of Ruby's mostly – but everyone else is about as foreign to him as if he were on a different planet entirely.

A planet with extreme hair styles and cringe worthy piercings; where a sea of black stretches out before him, sticking him out like a beacon in his baggy, colorful sweater.

"Ruby's my cousin," Castiel explains then clarifies, "the one 'not dating' Sam Winchester." As if on cue, Castiel feels a massive hand grip his shoulder. and then Sam's voice booms over the last few chords of the Rubies’ song.

"Castiel, you made it!" He sounds happy, clearly surprised to see Castiel somewhere other than the record store.

Castiel's offering smile is polite. "Ruby threatened me on pain of death."

Sam squeezes his shoulder. "Of course, she did."

Castiel nods once and takes a pull from his beer, attempting to avoid further conversation. He doesn't want to be rude - Sam has always been nothing but kind to him – but he's antisocial on his best of days and today has not been one of his best.

Sam either misses the hint, or he blatantly ignores it. "So, what do you think of the band?" he asks, sliding an empty glass across the counter. In the background, Castiel hears Ruby on the mic announcing a fifteen-minute break, and then music streams over unseen speakers.

"They're not bad," Castiel replies honestly, "very Yeah Yeah Yeah's."

"You think so?" Sam’s obviously pleased that Castiel even remotely approves.

"Yes." The bottle goes back to Castiel's lips, and he takes another swig.

"Cool." Sam grins. His glass is back now, and to Castiel's relief, Sam is pushing off the bar. "I'm gonna see if Ruby needs anything, you good?"

"Would you mind telling her I'm here and that there's no need to continue texting me death threats? She was getting quite creative."

"Will do," Sam snickers. "And hey, it's good to see you, Cas."

"Good to see you, Sam."

Sam lumbers off leaving Castiel alone with his drink. He sips at it until it's gone, then grabs Tessa's attention for another. As soon as it's in his hands, Dean's approaching the bar, a man at his side whom Castiel hears Jo address as Victor. Ducking out of Dean's view, Castiel slides off his stool, throwing himself in the throngs of people and pushing his way towards the far end of the room.

He's not a coward, he's _not_. But he's also not drunk enough to deal with Dean's arrogance, and so he flattens himself against a wall, sliding to a sitting position where he pulls his knees to his chest. He hunches in on himself, making himself small and mostly invisible among the jungle of black and low swooping chains. It's a relief to finally be somewhat alone, and for the first time since he's stepped through the front door, his muscles don't feel so tight, his anxiousness slowly melting off him in a blend of alcohol and music.

Without the pressure of panic on his mind, Castiel freely observes Dean while nursing his beer, perfectly positioned where he can see without being seen.

Dean looks mostly like he did the last time Castiel saw him, hair still blue, and clad in all black just like everyone else. But tonight, he's added a heavy dose of eyeliner to the lower lids of his eyes and a black lacquer to his fingernails. And while it might be a bit extreme, the look definitely works for Dean. Annoyingly so, in fact.

He's still nothing but a snarky asshole, though.

There's an easy smile playing at Dean's lips, his shoulders relaxed, and he looks infinitely more comfortable here than he did in the record store.

Before Castiel realizes it, he's downed his beer and his thoughts are swimming. What is it Dean's said that's making Victor laugh? Is he intentionally staring at Tessa's boobs while the other man responds? Is he wondering if Castiel is there?

The last thought brings Castiel up short. He's thinking too much, not hazy enough yet to slip into apathy, so he stands on shaky legs and works his way back to the bar. Wedging himself between the wall and a dark-haired woman in a tight black tank top, he's careful to stand out of Dean's sight.

Jo comes to help him. "What'll it be this time, stranger?" she asks.

"Something stiff. I don't care what it is, I just want it strong."

“Beer before liquor...” Jo taunts.

Castiel rolls his eyes. That ‘rule’ has never applied to him. Somehow, despite vomiting when his anxiety reaches unmanageable levels, Castiel's always had an iron stomach. “I'm practically an alcoholic. Just give me something.”

Jo studies him for a few seconds, a contemplative smirk on her lips. "You're not driving, are you?" Castiel shakes his head, and Jo turns away from him, grabbing a glass and mixing liquor as she goes. When she slams the drink down in front of him, she's grinning wildly.

"Harvelle Special," she says. "Don't ask; just drink."

Castiel raises the glass to his lips and tips it back, taking the liquid into his mouth. He winces at the burn that follows it down. "I hate tequila," he grumbles, wiping his hand across his mouth, as if he can scrub out the foul taste.

Jo's response is unapologetic as she wiggles past Tessa and on to help another person. "You said stiff."

Castiel's still scowling down at the empty shot glass when a body slides into the chair next to him, filling the space Tight Tank Top Woman recently left.

"Well, well, well. Look what the wind blew in."

Castiel's head snaps up, and he finds himself nearly nose to nose with Dean Winchester. And he'd been doing so well at avoiding him. Dammit.

"Dean," he breathes. Dean's eyes are light and opaque even in the low lighting, and the amused smile he wears annoys Castiel almost instantly. Smug bastard.

"So. Didn't have anything better to do with your Saturday night than slum it with us?"

Castiel doesn't respond, turning instead to frown at the ring of liquid swirling shallowly at the bottom of his glass. He's fidgety, knowing Dean's eyes are still on him.

"Nice sweater," Dean comments when Castiel remains quiet. "You do know it’s July, right?"

Castiel fixes his eyes on Dean and glares. "I hardly think you're one to make comments about my appearance, Freckles. Stuck with the blue, I see," he says, his eyes flicking up to Dean's hair then back down to his face. "And this," he says running a finger lightly over the dark smudges under Dean's eyes. "Were you born with this, Leto, or is it Maybelline?"

"Fuck off, Cas," Dean grates, defensive. He waves Castiel's hand away but doesn't protest when Castiel's fingers curl around the neck of Dean's beer bottle. "What do you have against guyliner?" he says instead.

The bottle is half way to Castiel's mouth when he pauses and looks at Dean, brows cocked. "Everything?"

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. "Whatever. You can keep telling yourself you don't like it, sweetheart, but we both know you do."

Their gazes lock as Castiel takes a swallow of Dean's beer. When Dean flashes him that stupid arrogant smile he'd worn in the record store, Castiel looks away.

"So how long you been here?" Dean wonders seemingly satisfied at Castiel's lack of retort.

Castiel shrugs, "A couple songs and a few drinks."

"You avoiding me or somethin'?"

Castiel's eyes narrow, his head tilting to one side. "Did you expect me to seek you out?"

Behind them the Rubies have started playing another set. Castiel should focus more of his attention on the band, hope Dean's better at taking hints than his brother, but for the life of him he can't tear his gaze away from the asshole.

Dean shrugs reaching for his bottle, only a small amount of liquid remaining, "I don't know," he admits. "Maybe. Not really."

"Then your conclusion that I'm avoiding you is both unnecessary and false, no?"

"So, why'd you come?" Dean counters. "Thought you were too good for life outside your bubble."

Castiel brandishes his empty glass. "I like to drink," he says. "And wasn't it _you_ who implied I don't reside in the real world?"

"You don't," Dean confirms. "You might visit from time to time, but that don't make you anything more than a tourist." Dean's eyes are sparkling, his mouth curved into half a grin, and that's when Castiel realizes: Dean's _flirting_ with him--pushing-him-down-on-the-playground, pulling-his-pigtails flirting with him. It's ridiculous, pathetic even. Though not nearly as ridiculous or pathetic than the fact that Castiel doesn't exactly hate it.

Or that he might be flirting back.

"Perhaps if the real world were more hospitable, I'd consider staying longer."

"Maybe you just haven't had the right tour guide," Dean points out with one brow quirked. "Sounds to me like you just need someone to show you the finer things in life."

Castiel hums. "Such as?"

"Not drinking crap alcohol alone, for one thing."

"I'm making the best out of what's been provided. And who says I'm drinking alone?" Castiel snaps.

Dean sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. "Get your panties out of a bunch, Cas; I'm not accusing you of anything, okay? If anyone should keep their mouth shut about drinking alone, it's me. All I'm sayin' is I've got a bottle of Johnnie Walker upstairs if you're interested; unless you wanna keep choking down Harvelle Specials all night."

Castiel eyes him. While he and Dean hardly know one another, Dean's got to be one of the most irritating people he's ever met, but the enigma is enticing, an itch he can't scratch but refuses to quit reaching for.

Generally, he doesn't feel anything more than disinterest in people. They're boring and petty, and spend far too much time worrying about bullshit that won't matter a damn thing in the end. But Dean, Dean's under his skin. The fact that Castiel feels _anything_ towards him is... well it's something.

"You comin’ or not," Dean prods when Castiel doesn't answer.

Castiel narrows his eyes again, "Fine," he hedges, indignant. "Lead the way."

And despite the look of shock that rolls over Dean's face, he stands from the bar stool, turning, trusting Castiel will follow him.

Castiel follows.

~

Dean's room is clean. Cleaner than Castiel expected, but then, he reasons, Dean most likely wouldn't have invited him up had it not been somewhat presentable.

Everything in the room seems quite telling of Dean's personality from the old quilt draped over the full bed in the corner, the crate of records at its foot, to the modest-sized record player nestled next to a dresser. Even the mismatched pillow cases and acoustic guitar cozied up in the corner seem to make sense – representing Dean in one way or another – but what really catches Castiel's eye is the bookshelf next to Dean's bed.

His gaze scans over music books tucked in-between tattered volumes of Vonnegut, Heller, and Palahniuk, and Castiel can't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't pegged Dean as a big reader.

"See something you like?" Dean questions from where he's digging the aforementioned bottle of Johnnie Walker out of his bottom dresser drawer.

Castiel shrugs, his eyes skating past a copy of _On the Road_ before focusing on a faded picture of a small boy wrapped up in the arms of a pretty, blonde woman atop the highest shelf. When Dean comes to stand at his side, realizes what it is Castiel's looking at, he pushes it face down and slides it under the lamp it was perched against. There's a story there, Castiel realizes, but as someone who doesn't share his own stories, he doesn't ask to hear it.

"Probably ain't as swanky as your pad, but its home," Dean explains.

Castiel settles himself on the floor, back against the bed frame, and Dean slides down next to him. Castiel watches as Dean twirls the cap off the bottle and takes a pull, curling his lips back as the liquid goes down and nodding his head in satisfaction.

"You're incredibly presumptuous."

Dean blinks at Castiel, holding the bottle out for him to take. "How so?"

Castiel hesitates only a moment before taking a swig himself. He doesn't need much, already well on his way to a good buzz, but he craves the numbness he knows will follow, so he takes a good couple of swallows before allowing Dean to take the bottle back.

"You assume to know anything about me based on the extremely few details you do know. For the sake of your fragile pride, I'll allow you to go right on assuming. But, do know I don't exactly fit the mold you've put me in.”

“You're tellin' me you don't come from money?”

Annoyance burns inside Castiel. “My _parents_ come from money, you asshole, and I don't have anything to do with either one of them; I – as you said – earn my keep. And there's much more to me than that.”

"This why you drink alone?" Dean asks after a hearty gulp. "'Cause of your sparkling personality?"

Castiel's head falls to rest against the side of Dean's mattress, weary. "Technically, I wasn't alone," he points out. "If you hadn't noticed your basement is a circus."

"C'mon, Cas, you know what I mean," Dean prods.

Castiel sighs. "I prefer to be alone, on the edges if you will; therefore, most of what I do is alone, which yes, includes drinking."

"On the edges," Dean repeats, "what does that mean?"

"People fascinate me," Castiel admits, though he doesn't know if Dean believes him, his voice sounding uninterested even in his own ears, "but I prefer to observe rather than interact."

Dean's got the bottle against his lips again, and before he speaks, he tips it back. "And why's that, sweetheart?" He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "You too good for everyone?"

"It's not arrogance, Dean; it's disinterest."

"So, you're fascinated by people who disinterest you?" Dean repeats slowly, brow pulled into a furrow. "I dunno, Cas. Sounds kinda arrogant to me."

Castiel's face heats with irritation, and he can't help but wonder if Dean invited him up under false pretenses. He was promised alcohol, not an interrogation. "You're one to talk."

Dean snorts lightly and shakes his head. "God, Cas. No wonder nobody knows anything about you. You're not very personable, you know that?" His voice cuts through any other biting remarks Castiel would have shot back, and the blatant honesty of it shoves all Dean's fuzzy edges into solidity. That's what makes Dean different than most, not being afraid to say what society would consider the Wrong Thing. It's exhausting being around people who spend so much of their time attempting to say the Right Thing to avoid hurt feelings. Dean's lack of qualms when it comes to blurting out exactly what's on his mind is like breathing fresh air after being held under water.

Dean may be an asshole, but at least he's an honest asshole.         

"Yes, I know."

"And you don't care?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"As I said, I prefer to observe," Castiel offers simply. He closes his eyes, stomach warm from the alcohol and limbs heavy. If Dean would stop talking, Castiel may be able to drop off for the night and forget about life for the time being.

"Doesn't observing ever get lonely?"

The question is quiet, tentative, and Castiel opens his eyes at the words, turns so he's looking Dean head on. It's a shock of hazed over green staring back at him, and Castiel is wrapped up in the sincerity of Dean's open gaze. He looks away before answering. "Sometimes. But, I don't really feel the loneliness unless I think about it."

With the weight of Dean's eyes still trained on him, a shiver runs through Castiel. He's hardly said anything at all, but he feels like he's said too much. He's already let his guard down more tonight than he has in months, and if Dean keeps looking at him like that, Castiel's afraid he'll spill his entire life story. When he looks over at Dean again, it's with his expression guarded.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel reaches across the open space between them and places a finger over Dean's lips. "I don't want to talk anymore, Dean," he says quietly, voice thick with fatigue and alcohol.

Dean nods, pauses. "We could make out instead," he eventually offers, half a smirk tugging at his lips.

Castiel studies Dean's face, the quickly retreating arrogance that's replaced with a skepticism Cas is certain others rarely see. "Will it keep you quiet?" Surely that's the alcohol talking because really, he could just get up and walk away, hail a cab home for the night, and hide in the comfort of his bed until Monday morning. He could do that. Or he could stay here with Dean, see what other layers there are to uncover...

"Only if you're good," Dean retorts.

Castiel licks his lips, tugs the bottle of Johnnie Walker from Dean's grasp, and closes the space between them.

Letting Dean kiss him is probably not the smartest decision Castiel has made in his lifetime, Dean Winchester being the last person he thought he'd end up messing around with, but Dean's mouth sparks an even deeper interest in Castiel. It doesn't feel like Dean at all, no hard edges or iron walls, but at the same time, it feels _exactly_ like Dean in a way one can only recognize if they dig beneath the surface.

Against his better judgment, Castiel wants to dig.

The kiss is unassuming, exploratory, more like something two people would engage in on a first date rather than whatever it is that's happening between them now. Dean nips at Cas's bottom lip before licking along the seam of his mouth, and Castiel vaguely wonders if Dean is this attentive with all his partners, or if Castiel just brings it out in him.

It's not long when something shifts between them, mouths moving more desperately against one another's, more hurried, almost sloppy. It's an easy dance of push-pull between them, and Castiel only vaguely recognizes his hand reaching out and fisting in Dean's t-shirt.

One of them moans as the kiss deepens, and Castiel doesn't even wonder which of them it was, getting lost in the taste and feel of Dean's mouth working in tandem with his own. Dean reaches out, both hands coming to pull Castiel closer, and Castiel takes the initiative to swing himself into Dean's lap, his knees resting on either side of Dean's hips, his chest pressed firmly against the other man’s. He rolls his hips a little, testing how it feels to be against Dean in this way, and realizes Dean's semi-hard beneath him. It is, in some ways, entirely too frightening to imagine Castiel can make another person feel that way, and in others, all too curious.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean breathes. One of his hands comes up to tug on the beanie resting loosely on Cas's head, and it comes off easily, Dean's fingers immediately going to tangle in Castiel's unruly hair.

Castiel leans in, sucks at the juncture of Dean's jaw then moves down to his neck, biting at the sensitive skin there before working his tongue over it. Dean's head thunks back against the mattress with a soft grunt, and he pushes a hand up underneath the back of Castiel's sweater. His fingers are warm, calloused from hard work and countless hours spent plucking away on a guitar no doubt, and Castiel likes the feel of them on his bare skin, the way they drag down his vertebrae slow and gentle.

Dean presses at the small of Castiel's back bringing him closer, and Castiel rolls his hips experimentally again, Dean groaning with the act. He's becoming ever more apparent underneath Castiel, the thick, hard line of him giving Castiel something to grind down on shamelessly, making his own arousal known.

Dean's hand moves from Castiel's hair and joins the other underneath his sweater, rubbing up and down in calming movements as Castiel mouths at Dean's piercings in one ear and then the other only to mold their lips together again.

"What are the chances of me getting you out of this sweater, Mr. Huxtable?" Dean breathes as he moves to press kisses to the underside of Castiel's jaw and settles his hands on Castiel's hips, mindlessly moving his thumbs in circles on his skin.

"I don't know who that is, but I'm assuming you're insulting my wardrobe again," Castiel retorts, tilting his head back to give Dean better access.

Dean stops and blinks up at Castiel, eyes wide. "Mr. Huxtable, Cas. You know? Bill Cosby, the sick bastard from the _Cosby Show_?"

Castiel shakes his head. “Why are you implying I share a likeness with a sick bastard?”

“I’m not- that’s not what I-” Castiel’s quirked brow has Dean sputtering, and he can’t help but smile. Dean sighs, frustrated. “What, did you grow up in a box?"

Castiel's not entirely sure why they've stopped to have a pop culture lesson, but it gives him time to think about where this seems to be headed and whether he's going to allow it.

"You know, if you wanted me to take my clothes off, all you had to do was ask," he points out. "Without the insults," he adds as an afterthought, realizing technically Dean did ask. Technically.

Dean smiles up at him loose and lazy. "That's not my style, Cas," he admits. "I'm better at stuff like, 'Hey nice sweater, bet it looks better off.’"

Castiel huffs at him, "So your ' _style_ ' is ass," he mutters, and though everything inside him is screaming _leave_ , _flee_ , _retreat,_ he tugs at his collar and starts pulling the sweater over his head.

Dean is quick to assist him, yanking it off in an almost frenzied motion and tossing it aside. When his hands are free, he fits them across either side of Castiel's rib cage and stares at the tattoo on Castiel's chest.

The room turns cold.

It's one of those stories Castiel doesn't want to talk about, and he shies away from the vulnerability he feels with Dean being able to see it up close this way. He's never really showed anyone before; it's too private a part of him, but then, sharing it with Dean, an almost complete stranger, doesn't terrify him as thoroughly as he thought it would.

Dean lifts a hand from Castiel's side, his fingers hovering just above the tattoo and a surge of anxiety jolts through Castiel. He's ready to protest, but Dean's eyes slide up to meet his and he nods but doesn't say anything, his eyes alight with understanding.

"I was right," Dean finally says obviously trying to oblige Castiel in changing the subject. "That fucking sweater is much better off."

Castiel hides a smile and leans in to kiss Dean gently on the lips.

In an unspoken understanding they move from the floor to the bed where Castiel lays on his back as Dean removes his shirt and hovers over Castiel, staring down at him. Castiel wants to curl in on himself, but anxieties be damned, he runs his hands over Dean's strong shoulders and along his flank, the solid muscle beneath tanned skin grounding him just a bit in an interesting sort of way.

"I shouldn't be doing this," Dean blurts out as he leans down to kiss Castiel. "We should probably stop."

Castiel crinkles his brow and pushes a hand into Dean's hair, "Why?"

"Sam specifically told me- not to try- and sleep with you," Dean admits, his actions defying his words as he peppers kisses along Castiel's jaw and neck.

"Why would he say that?" Castiel pants as Dean leans in to kiss along his collar bone. His lips travel down across Castiel's chest pausing only when they reach a nipple. Dean ignores the question and flicks a tongue out teasingly before lowering his mouth completely and sucking at the nub, rolling it gently between his teeth. Castiel arches into the touch, his hands tugging at Dean's hair, and he only partially suppresses a moan, deciding he really doesn't need to know the answer.

Dean chuckles. "You like that, sweetheart?" His voice is husky and quiet, laden with want.

"I'd like it a lot more if you'd quit talking," Castiel grumbles, because quite frankly he's teetering between just giving himself over to Dean completely, and clinging to his security blanket of sarcasm, fearful of which will win out.

Dean chuckles and moves to the other nipple giving it the same treatment, Castiel writhing underneath him against his own better judgement. By the time Dean is pressing kisses to Cas's ribs and flicking a tongue quickly into his navel, all Castiel's nerves are standing at the ready, need thrumming in his veins, the question he'd asked Dean all but forgotten. He pushes Dean's head lower, encouraging him to get his mouth in a place that will be more effective in relieving the pull that's gathering low in his belly. Dean places a couple of kisses along the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans and then stops, pulling away, his hand hovering over the button as he peers at Castiel.

"Is this-" he stops and scratches at the back of his neck before pushing on, "is this okay?" His pupils are blown wide, and there's a flush sitting high on his cheeks. Other than that, he seems surprisingly lucid for someone who's intoxicated, and Castiel feels a bit unnerved by that, like he can't quite seem to slip completely out of Dean's notice.

"You're asking this now?" Castiel asks, pushing himself into a sitting position, irritation flaring in his chest. It's quickly edged out by the fact that Dean even has the decency to ask something like that, but he's not ready to get sentimental on the other man. Not when they've already moved from light and unattached to something that feels strikingly like _intimacy_. "Why would I lie here and let you-"

Dean cuts him off, sealing their lips together, "Okay," he says gruffly when they pull apart. "Okay, just shut up, for the love of God, _shut up_."

Castiel narrows his eyes at him. "Why don't _you_ use your mouth for something more productive than asking stupid questions," he suggests. He works his fly open himself and wiggles out of his pants, tossing them over the side of the bed and staring at Dean's denim clad thighs. Within a matter of seconds, Dean's jeans join Castiel's on the floor.

Cas had acknowledged upon their first meeting that Dean was attractive – it'd be almost impossible not to – but with less for Dean to hide behind, Castiel's eyes can't help but roam greedily. The other man's hair may be obnoxiously blue, the striking green of his eyes mostly lost behind the liner, his body riddled with piercings, but he's beautiful nonetheless; firm muscle under tanned skin, infuriatingly endearing freckles spattered all over, even the bow of Dean's legs have Castiel trying not to openly gape and failing.

As he takes in Dean's nearly naked form, he realizes Dean has tattoos hiding underneath all his layers, several of them inked into his skin, black and white pieces of Dean Castiel's not cognizant of. His eyes rove over them silently, taking in their beauty, and he wonders if there are stories behind them like there are his own.

Regardless, their detail is stunning. There's a pair of intricate, old-fashioned guns crossed at the barrel that rest just below his navel, and a sun-type symbol on the left side of his chest, on his inner bicep are a few lines of script, and a set of dog tags dangling from a chain tattooed around his neck that comes to rest at his breastbone. He thinks to ask about them, but then Dean sprawls out on top of him and all Castiel's words are lost in skin on skin on skin.

Dean lines their cocks up and rubs them together in an unhurried, sensual movement. It feels good, but the rough slide of cotton on cotton and the way Dean's got his face buried in Castiel's neck now, pressing light kisses wherever his lips can reach is too much; it feels too intimate, too much like there will be something expected of him afterwards, and Castiel is beginning to feel like he can't breathe. He pushes up against Dean, his hands on Dean's chest and the other man looks down at him with a questioning glance.

"This isn't going to take care of itself," Cas says rubbing them together again. "I'd appreciate it if you would. Sometime before my buzz wears off."

"Figured you'd be bossy in bed," Dean grumbles.

Castiel wants to ask what Dean means by that, but Dean's already mouthing at his cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs and then hooking his fingers underneath the waistband and pulling them down, freeing Castiel's erection. The words dangle from the tip of his tongue until Dean licks a stripe up the underside of him, and then everything is _feel_ , _want_ , _need_ and any snarky remarks he had are buried in the groan he lets out.

Dean's mouth closes around him, his cheeks hollowing out, and Castiel throws an arm over his eyes, skin prickling with sweat under the pleasure.

" _Fuck_ \- _Dean_ -" It's all he can manage, and he may be embarrassed about it later but right at this moment, nothing else matters.

Castiel grows dangerously close to spilling into Dean's mouth as Dean works him over with his lips and his tongue.

His orgasm is building rapidly now, his muscles pulled taut and ready, everything honing in on that moment. He assumes Dean can feel it, too. That's the only explanation Castiel has for why Dean is pulling off.

"You clean?" Dean asks wiping a hand across his mouth.

Castiel stops panting and blinks. "What?"

"I asked if you're clean. If I let you come in my mouth, you're not going to give me some shit that no one's ever heard of, are you?"

Castiel leans up on his elbows then and assesses Dean, trying to figure out if Dean is being serious or not. "Why would I have something no one's ever heard of?"

"I don't know," Dean says with a shrug, "I just figured having some common STD would be too mainstream for you."

Castiel stares before responding. "Wow," he says, "you really out did yourself there."

"So... Is that a yes?"

Castiel groans and falls back into the pillows, his arm going over his eyes, "Dean Winchester, you are incorrigible," he states seriously. "No, I do not have anything. Are you ever going to finish, or should I show myself to the bathroom?"

"Dick," Dean mutters somewhere above him.

"Yes, Dean. Dick. Mine for example." Castiel's arm is still thrown over his eyes; he's not even sure if Dean is still listening or not, but he keeps talking anyway, "Piss or get off the pot, I believe is what you said to me earlier."

Suddenly, Castiel is being pushed onto his side and Dean is lining himself up behind him. Dean's arm comes around Cas's waist, and his fist fits around his cock while Dean's own leaking erection slides into the crease of Castiel's ass.

"You're such a freaking princess," Dean grumbles in Castiel's ear, and then he's jacking Cas off quick and dirty, the spit he left behind easing the friction of skin on skin.

Castiel's head falls back on Dean's shoulder, and he snakes an arm up and around Dean's neck while Dean thrusts against him from behind in tandem with the pumping of Cas's cock.

"Thought- I was- gunna- come in- your mouth," Castiel bites out.

"I don't trust you," Dean admits.

"Dean, you've already had my dick in your mouth; in the event that I _was_ carrying an STD, the odds of you having contracted it would not be in your fav- ahhhh," Castiel stops when Dean's fist tightens around him, and Castiel can't help but thrust into it harder and faster than Dean's moving. He takes the hint though and remains silent until the familiar build of orgasm is back, and then he's moaning and babbling at Dean to go tighter and faster. Dean obliges, his thrusts picking up with the movement of his hand, and Castiel lets out a strangled cry before he spills all over Dean's hand. He's still riding out the waves of his release when he feels the hot spurt of come against his back.

They're both breathing hard, their chests rising and falling in sync with one another as they ride out their releases. When he comes down, Castiel is afraid to move in fear of spreading their come around on the sheets, but Dean just rolls over, snatches the first article of clothing he can find off the floor, Cas's sweater, and mops up his mess from Cas's back, then wipes the come off his hands. The sheets have remained surprisingly clean.

Castiel, his body heavy and sluggish from the alcohol and euphoria from orgasm, tells himself to get up, find his clothes and get out. But, Dean's climbing back into bed now, having killed the lights, and is fitting himself behind Castiel once more and pulling the outermost sheet over their sweat-cooled bodies.

Castiel's eyelids droop and his brain begins to shut down. He feels an arm close around his waist and a kiss being pressed into his shoulder, and his last coherent thought before he succumbs to the heavy sleep that's looming on the outskirts of his brain is, _Dean Winchester, asshole extraordinaire, is a cuddler_.

**:::**

It’s 7am when Castiel blinks against the beams of sun shining in between the curtains on Dean's window. Two things are apparent at that point: he will most definitely be spending the day in bed nursing a hangover, and the body pressed against his back is both warm and ready for a repeat of whatever the hell happened the night before. He can tell by the steady breathing against the back of his neck that Dean is still very much asleep though, so he does his best to roll out of Dean's arms and move to the foot of the bed without jostling too much.

He fumbles around the room silently gathering what he can find of his clothes and tugging them on - cursing the monster headache swirling around in his head. He’s almost fully dressed when he spots his sweater balled up on the end of Dean’s bed. Cas vaguely remembers Dean cleaning them both up with it and he examines the front, scowling. Sure enough there’s dried come all over the chest. He should probably just put the damn thing on and get over it, but doing the walk of shame in articles of clothing covered in come is where he draws the line. Instead he goes for Dean’s dresser and quietly rummages through the drawers looking for something that doesn’t look like it’d be missed. At the bottom of one of the drawers he tugs out an almost new looking navy-blue sweatshirt with a fire department logo on the front. It looks like it’s hardly been worn, and it was tucked in the back, so he tugs it on without another thought and heads for the door.

Allowing himself one more glance over his shoulder to assure that Dean is in fact still asleep, Castiel pads to Dean’s bedroom door and shows himself out.

In the hall, Castiel pulls the door closed behind him and turns towards where he remembers the front door being. He hasn't taken more than a few steps when he hears an amused, "Mornin' Cas," from directly behind him.

Castiel turns around slowly and looks up, his eyes landing on Sam sitting at the dining table with a large mug in his hands and an even larger smug smile on his face. From where Sam's sitting, there's no way Castiel could have snuck out unnoticed.

Castiel clears his throat and only briefly makes eye contact. "Good morning, Sam," he mutters back.

"Want some coffee?" Sam happily raises his mug.

"No, thank you, I was just leaving."

"See ya around, Cas."

Castiel nods, "See you around."

The two stare at each other for a moment more, I-know-what-you-did-last-night etched clearly into Sam's expression, and then Castiel turns, heads down the hall, and doesn’t look back.

He walks to the bus stop with clenched hands and a barely contained nausea from too much alcohol and promises himself he and Dean Winchester will never be having sex again.

 

**\---**

 

It's nearing noon by the time Dean stumbles out of his bedroom. Sam has already started cleaning up from the night before, and the house is too bright and cheery for the traces of hangover still hanging around in Dean's stomach.

He shuffles over to the coffee machine and starts a drip going before sinking into the couch, resting his head back on the cushions, and squeezing his eyes closed against the harsh rays of sun beaming in through the big window.

Dredging up memories from the previous night, certain events flutter in and out of Dean's memory: Garth doing body shots off some chick no one knew, Charlie and Tessa making eyes at each other from across the basement, and Victor eyeing Jo's ass when he thought Dean wasn't looking. After the string of anonymous faces and one too many drinks filter out, a shock of dark hair and narrowed blue eyes settle front and center in his brain. Snippy remarks about mysterious STDs, an intricate tattoo that wasn't allowed to be discussed, and smooth, narrow hips fill all the spaces leaving no room for anything but one name: Castiel. And that's when Dean remembers: he'd had sex with Castiel, the guy from the record store, Sam's "lonely" friend and not-girlfriend's cousin. And Dean had cuddled him afterward, kissed him good night in some weird passive way that Dean can only attribute to being drunk.

Dean covers his face with his hands and groans.

The problem isn't just that he'd slept with Castiel, but that he'd enjoyed it. Everything from the snarky banter and the tight, lean body beneath, on top of, and beside him, to having a warm body, Cas's warm body, next to him through most of the night. He'd gotten off on it all. Literally.

"Shit," Dean mutters to himself. Aside from the fact that he'd deliberately gone against what Sam had asked him not to do, these were not the feelings he usually dealt with on the morning after a one-night stand, and quite frankly, he doesn't know how to deal with them at all.

As the storm rages on in his head, Sam walks in from the hall.

"I wondered if you'd be joining the land of the living today," his brother says from behind him. Dean jumps marginally at Sam's voice and hears the fridge open and then the contents therein being moved around. "Did you have fun last night?"

Dean tries to determine whether Sam had seen he and Castiel sneak off together and if he had, how vehement the lashing would be.

He decides to stay vague until he can judge how much Sam knows. "Yeah, Sammy, it was great."

Sam's response is a simple, "Good," and then the only sounds in the room are Sam rummaging through the fridge and the steady drip of the coffee machine.

Dean turns in his seat, so he can see Sam in the kitchen. "So," Dean asks with a self-satisfied smile broadening on his face, "didja get lucky last night?"

Sam pulls his long frame out of the fridge and looks at Dean who wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam responds seriously, "Did you?"

Dean realizes his mistake, and he feels his cheeks flush. "What? No. Why would you think that? I didn't-"

At that Sam raises his eyebrows but remains silent. Suddenly, Dean feels like a trapped animal under Sam's questioning stare, and he needs to escape. He leaps from his seat on the couch. "I have to go shower," he says, his voice coming out loud and clumsy.

"What about your coffee, Dean?"

Dean's eyes flick from Sam's face to the coffee maker behind him. It's almost ready and smells exactly like what he needs right now, but the more Dean squirms, the more questions Sam will ask and so he has to make a sacrifice: caffeine or the truth.

"I made it for you!" Dean lies. He walks around the couch and begins edging towards the hallway, Sam's eyes following him as he goes, "So, uh, there you go. I'm just going to go. Shower. Okay."

With that Dean hurries the short distance down the hall to the bathroom and retreats inside, pointedly not thinking about the coffee he's just left behind or the reason he's feeling so flustered.

Dean's proud of himself for keeping Castiel out of his head for a good ten minutes, but when he's back in his bedroom and going through his dresser for something to throw on he spots the bottom-most drawer sitting half open, the clothes inside in disarray. He’s confused until he combs through the contents and realizes what’s missing. Dean chuckles to himself and thinks, _That bastard stole my sweatshirt_.

And really the only thought on his mind now is that he’ll just have to get it back.


	4. Chapter 4

Mid-afternoon Friday Dean is elbows deep in grease and rickety car parts as he hacks away at a carburetor on an old Ford Mustang that needs to be finished by four. His phone is vibrating incessantly in his pocket, and if he didn't have the feeling it's Sam, he'd probably ignore it. As it were, Dean extracts his arms from under the hood of the car and does his best to wipe them down on an already grimy towel before digging out his phone.

"Hey, Sammy," he keeps his eyes trained on the innards of the car, assessing.

"Hey, Dean. Do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

"I'm at work, Sam, you couldn't text?"

"Sorry, I had a break and thought I'd just call. So, do you?"

Dean pokes around in the car with a ratchet driver and takes stock of what still needs to be done before the car will function properly. No way is he getting it done by four o'clock.

Dean heaves a laborious sigh.

"Dean, are you there?"

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, "Yeah, Sammy, I'm still here. Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I wanted to know if you want to go to Shurley's tomorrow night with me and Ruby and a few others."

"What the hell is Shurley's?"

"It's a bar over on Lazarus. Do you want to come or not?"

Dean's brain flits back to the last time he was in that part of town. He remembers the record store and the cafe next door, and now that he thinks about it, the name Shurley's does sound familiar.

"Is that the bar across the street from the record store that Ca-" Dean pauses wanting to choose his words carefully, "that your friend works at?"

He can tell Sam is smiling when he responds although he isn't sure why. "Yep that's the one."

At the mention of Cas, Dean’s heart races in his chest. He's thought about Castiel all week. The man's blue eyes and his tattoo entertained Dean’s dreams and kept him distracted during daylight. If he hadn't thought Cas was so damn interesting, he would have found it annoying. As it were, he wants to know more about the guy. And there's his sweatshirt to retrieve...

"You had me at ‘bar’, Sammy."

"Great. I'll see you at home."

"See you at home, weirdo," Dean mutters before disconnecting the call. He pockets his phone and turns his attention back to the task at hand, the Mustang in his charge.

As if sensing Dean’s distress over his time crunch, Bobby appears at his side with a cup of coffee in hand, peering under the hood with Dean.

"How's she lookin'?"

"Not gonna be done by four, that's for sure," Dean admits. Bobby fixes his stare on Dean. His eyes are narrowed, and there's a deeper scowl than usual on his face.

"You just wanna keep 'er around cause you like lookin' at 'er. Quit messing around with that brother of yours and get her done." He turns and marches towards his office, grumbling under his breath as he goes.

Dean shakes his head and gets back to work.

** ::: **

Saturday night finds Dean two beers in at Shurley's. He’s tried to make small talk with Ruby’s friends, but they're all downright creepy. Some guy called Alastair is eyeing Dean like he wants to tie him up somewhere and keep him as his pet, and the way 'other Ruby' slinks onto the barstool between he and Pamela – the only friend of Dean and Sam's that came along – and offers her a sly half-smile makes Dean worry he's about to get an eyeful of something less than appropriate for the public eye.

Instead of trying to strike up another conversation, Dean separates himself from the group - never has been one for crowds anyway - and orders a whiskey. It's warm and slides down his throat with a satisfying burn, warming his belly and taking off some of the edge of the night in a way the two beers hadn't. And he could do with a little liquid courage right about now.

After one more round, he's feeling reckless enough to seek out Castiel. The only thing is, he can be good and ready to see Cas all he wants, but all he knows about where Castiel lives is what Sam's told him and 'above the record store' doesn't do him much good. Plus, he’s got to come up with a good excuse for Sammy as to why he’s leaving so early.

Dean bites at his lip, glancing over at his brother. The kid looks content; a goofy smile on his face, one arm draped around the back of Ruby's chair, and maybe with Sam so wrapped up, now’s a safe time to make his retreat, no excuse necessary.

He doesn't acknowledge that his only plan is to go poke around until he finds his way to Cas's, that would make him feel like a creep, but that's the only option he sees at the moment. The smart thing to do would be to forget about Cas, stay another round, and keep an eye on Sam. But Dean’s got just enough alcohol in him to numb the logical part of his brain and propel him into action.

He pays his tab and Sam's, leaves enough for Sam to have a couple more and slides off his chair. Stepping out the door and wandering into the night he shoots Sam a text,  _ **Heading out. Got some stuff to take care of.**_ **C**   _ **all me if you can't get a cab home.**_

_ By stuff to take care of, you mean you’re going home with someone, don’t you. _

Dean blinks down at the screen. Despite deciding against one, it turns out Dean doesn’t even need an excuse, Sam’s already assumed one for him.  _ **Taking that period to mean that question is rhetorical. ;)**_

_ Use protection. _

_** Your face should use protection. ** _

Dean is halfway down the sidewalk when he comes across the redhead from the cafe he and Sam had eaten at the week before.  She's headed the opposite direction, but she smiles at him, all wide eyes and pretty, pale skin, and Dean remembers thinking she was friendly enough.

Taking a chance she might know the area better than he does, Dean stops her. "Hey, you work at the cafe, right?"

"Yeah," she looks up at him a smile gracing her face. "You're Sam's friend, right?"

Dean shakes his head. Does everyone around here know Sam? "Uh, brother, actually. Dean Winchester." Dean sticks out his hand and the girl does the same, her fingers curling around his knuckles and squeezing once before letting go.

"Anna," she says.

"Listen, Anna, this might sound weird, but I'm looking for a friend of mine. He lives around here, but I'm not sure how to get up to his apartment. I'd call him, but," Dean throws his hands out to his sides in a gesture of nonchalance, "I want to surprise him. His name's Castiel. You know him?"

Anna's somewhat flirtatious smile turns all-knowing then. "Castiel Edlund?" she asks.

"That's the one," Dean's never actually learned Cas's last name, but how many Castiel's can there actually be around here? How many Castiel's can there actually be anywhere?

"Of course, I know him, he's my cousin."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Your cousin, huh?" and then, "So wait, you're related to Ruby, too?"

Anna nods at him. "Our dads are brothers."

Dean nods to himself; is it a small fucking world, or what?

Anna pulls Dean from his momentary tangent of thought. "He doesn't know you're coming?"

Dean offers Anna a sheepish smile and hopes she won't tell him to get the hell out of Dodge and leave her family alone. Instead she rests a hand on Dean's arm and turns him towards the consignment shop across the street. It’s nestled right next door to Rapture Records, and Dean recognizes it from the last time he was in this part of town.

"You go in through the door between the shop and the record store," Anna tells him. "There's a hallway that leads into the stairwell. His apartment is at the top."

"Thanks."

Anna smiles at him, a knowing curve of her lips. “Anytime.”

Dean finds the door Anna referenced in no time. It swings open easily, no lock or buzzer to stop him, and he's grateful for that. Right inside the door is a row of mailboxes, and Dean scans them for Castiel's name. Finally, his eyes land on  _#12, Edlund_ , and he's taking the stairs two at a time to the very top of the building.

He makes his way down the poorly lit hallway until he reaches #12. There's a cat sitting outside the door, and her black and orange fur bristles as he approaches. She doesn't lash out at him like he expects her to, but her eyes are disapproving and sullen. She doesn't move when he plants his boots in front of the door and knocks.

There's music seeping underneath the door, something that sounds old and familiar. Dean hears footsteps approach and he waits to hear the click of the locks and for the door to swing open, but the sound never comes, the door remaining disappointingly still.  

Dean knocks again, louder this time. "C'mon, Cas, open up," he shouts over the music, "I know you're in there, I can smell your weed."

It's not long after that when door opens. It's only a sliver, Cas having left the lock chained, but Dean can see enough to know that Cas is mostly unclothed. The smell of marijuana is thicker with the door cracked, and it curls out into the hallway, infiltrating Dean's nose.

"Oh," Castiel says when he sees it's Dean. The door slams shut, and Dean's mouth falls open. He knows Cas thinks he’s an ass but not enough of one to merit a slammed door in his face. But then, Dean can hear the jingle of chain and the slide of metal against metal, and then the door is opening more, revealing Castiel, clad in nothing but Superman briefs. His hair is in complete disarray, he's gotten scruffy since the last time they'd seen each other, and he looks pretty baked. And now, with Castiel in front of him again – something Dean's been thinking about all week – Dean's not sure what to say.

After a minute of just standing and staring, Dean reaches out a hand and brushes a finger over Castiel's week old scruff. "Nice peach fuzz," he says.

"Thank you."

The short exchange is followed by more staring.

Dean looks down at his feet where the cat is still sitting and gestures at her. "This your cat?"

Castiel looks down at the calico and back up at Dean. "Technically. But, I put her out when I smoke. She'll get over it."

“Technically, huh?”

Cas nods, and then another silence settles between them, thick and uncomfortable. Now that the door is open, though, Dean can hear Cas's music properly, and he identifies the band immediately, its peppy music and melancholy lyrics easily identifiable. Castiel  _would_ like the Smiths.

"The Smiths, seriously?"

"Is that why you came over, Dan? To insult my music?"

"It's Dean, actually," Dean corrects, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck.

Castiel nods, "Okay."

It's clear to him now, with Cas high as a kite and not even remembering his name properly, that thinking there was something between them aside from a really great fuck may have been way off the mark. While Dean may have spent his week thinking about Castiel, it appears it was all one sided.

Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face, smothering all his flirtatious instincts. "I just came to get my sweatshirt," he finally lies.

"What sweatshirt?"

Dean glowers at Castiel, annoyed. "The one you stole from my room last weekend," Dean’s voice comes out harsh. "Don't act oblivious, Cas, I know you have it."

Castiel blinks at him for a moment like he's trying to drudge up the event Dean's referring to. "I don't know where it is," he finally admits, "but you can come in." He opens the door wide to permit Dean inside. It could be considered a strange gesture, seeing as how Dean had just snapped at him not two seconds before, but then Dean reminds himself this is  _Cas_ , strange is kind of his thing. Deciding not to argue, Dean steps inside, his irritation turning from a boil to a simmer.

The apartment is small, and minimalistic, and impeccably neat. With a double bed in the far corner, a living room set just inside the door, and a kitchenette off to the right, it suits Cas in a way a large, expansive apartment wouldn't.

"Right," Dean says after he's taken in Cas's living space, "I could see how it'd get easily misplaced. Must be a bitch keeping track of things in this shoe box."

"It has its nooks and crannies," Castiel comments absently as he closes the door behind Dean and walks away. He turns down the stereo using a remote and plants himself on the far corner of the couch. With a lazy smile settling on his face he throws his legs out in front of him haphazardly like he doesn't have company and rests his head back on the arm, eyes sliding closed. He's still got a joint in his hand that he raises to his lips, takes a puff of and lowers again, breathing deep and satisfied.

Dean mentally kicks himself in the ass for staring the way he is. But the guy's all lean muscle, lithe and cut in all the places most appealing to Dean. Slim hips, winged by the most beautiful set of hip bones and a taunting little trail of hair leading beneath the band of his briefs, long legs, thick thighs, and tattoos in all the right places...

Dean swallows hard.

It's a moment or two before Castiel peeks an eye open at Dean, just one sliver of blue staring across the room at him, and Dean stares back. Castiel takes another drag of his joint - it's nearing its end - and then lays it on the coffee table by the couch and sits up. He moves as if doing anything remotely hospitable is an annoying chore, and Dean's trying to figure out why he was invited inside in the first place.

Finally, Castiel speaks to him. "You just gonna stand there and stare, Freckles, or are you going to come in?"

Dean pauses for a beat, then crosses the room and sits at the other end of the couch.

"Would you like something to drink, Dean?" Cas is relaxed again, his eyes at half mast, scratching idly at his stomach. Dean's eyes flick to the slender expanse of skin and then back to Castiel's face.

"I'm not a fan of PBR," Dean snarks, "so no thanks."

Cas chuckles darkly at that, doesn't even bother opening his eyes fully to respond, "You know me so well, don't you.”

And this, this easy banter between the two of them, the back and forth about their clothing, or music, or beer choices, this is where Dean feels strangely comfortable. So, he presses on, sweatshirt momentarily forgotten.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What is it you've got in that fridge of yours then? Miller High Life? Maybe some Lone Star?"

Castiel huffs another angry laugh and pushes himself off the couch stomping over to the kitchenette. Dean watches as he goes, admires the tight bunch of muscles in Cas's upper back and shoulders, the dark red feathers inked into his skin. The tattoo carries all the way from the tips of Castiel's shoulders down his arms and back stopping only when the feathers, tattered at the ends, reach his elbows and the middle of his back. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd think at any moment Castiel could unfold the great, burnt, red wings and fly away.

Seemingly unaware he's being watched, Castiel goes to the shelving system in the corner and pulls back a canvas sheet revealing several clear bottles full of liquid. Pulling one from a shelf, Castiel retreats to the living room and slams the bottle on the coffee table, the peridot liquid sloshing up the sides before settling again in a pool near the bottom. The bottle is mostly empty.

"I make my own, you ass," he growls.

Dean stares at the bottle for a good few seconds, analyzing its contents before realizing Castiel is serious, and then he throws his head back and lets out a deep, rolling laugh.

"Fuck," he gasps, sliding lower on the couch until he's nearly lying down, "that's rich!"

Castiel says nothing. Dean keeps laughing.

Dean's got an arm thrown over his eyes as a few more chuckles escape past his lips, and he feels the couch dip, Castiel's weight returning. It's not a small piece of furniture, per se, but with two fully grown men occupying it, there isn't much room. But sliding his bare legs between Dean’s, his toes slipping underneath Dean’s ass, Castiel easily makes room for them both.

Dean uncovers his eyes and cracks them open at the other man. He's taking the final drag of his joint and eyeing Dean curiously. Dean expected him to be pouting, but Castiel is merely sitting, observing in a strange disconnected sort of way.

"Why you looking at me like that?" Dean asks, all traces of laughter gone.

Castiel motions towards the eerie green liquid. "I'm waiting for you to try it."

"Why, you gonna go all  _Arsenic and Old Lace_ on me?" Dean smirks.

Castiel doesn't respond, just sits like a bird on a wire, and watches.

Dean sniffs a little, collecting himself, and sits up slightly, reaching for the bottle. He pulls it towards him, eying the drink cautiously before putting the bottle to his lips and tipping a steady stream into his mouth. A burst of flavor hits his taste buds, alcohol and mint, and he pulls back, coughing as the liquid leaves a searing trail down his throat, his eyes watering from the burn.

"Goddamn, that’s  _strong_ ," he comments, not wanting to let on how impressed he is.

Castiel reaches across the couch, his long fingers curling around the neck of the bottle, and finishes off what's left, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

Dean watches carefully the up-down movement of Castiel's Adam's apple and imagines he can track the liquid all the way down the other man's throat and on to where it rests warm and heavy in his belly.

Castiel pulls off the bottle with a satisfied smack of lips, and he's only barely set it down on the table when Dean is moving hungrily across the couch and pouncing on him.

Castiel's eyes go wide when Dean comes at him, but he doesn’t protest when Dean moves their mouths together, chasing the flavor of the homemade alcohol and clinging taste of weed. He takes it all greedily, and Castiel is relaxing beneath him and giving it all right back.

Dean's not quite to drunk yet, but he's got a pretty good buzz going, one that makes it that much more exciting when Castiel forces Dean back so he can climb on top of Dean and straddle his hips.       

"Wanted more-" Dean pants between kisses, "but you drank it all-" he takes a breath.

Castiel's lips wander from Dean's lips down his jaw and then on to his neck. "Shut up, Winchester," he mutters against Dean's skin before fixing his lips there and laving with his tongue.

Dean throws his head back and closes his eyes, "Yeah," he agrees, "shutting up."

Cas continues leaving a trail of faint marks down Dean's neck, and Dean's hands are everywhere, running up and down Cas's flank, pressing at the small of his back, tangling in his too long hair. It's all so much yet not enough, and Dean's ravenous for more.

There's just something about Cas that drives Dean wild.

Dean's fingers skate down Cas's spine as he rolls his hips against Dean's and pushes his hands up underneath the hem of Dean's t-shirt, exploring Dean's bare skin while moving back to kiss his mouth.

Dean's hands slide beneath the tight fabric of Castiel's Superman briefs, and he palms the curve of Castiel's ass, kneading the supple skin and hauling Cas even closer to him. Cas moans against Dean's mouth, and before Dean can register what's happening, Castiel pulls himself out of his underwear. He makes a fist around his erection and starts to pump, but as soon as Dean notices, he stops kissing, pulls back.

"Hey, none of that," he says.

Castiel glares at him, a questioning annoyance in his eyes. His body has gone rigid beneath Dean's hands, and he looks like he's about to bolt.

"Let me take care of you," Dean explains quietly, his request almost shy. Castiel's eyes soften then, ever so slightly, and he removes his hand from himself and places it instead on Dean's neck. They study each other for a brief second or two before Cas is nipping at the plump, fleshy bottom of Dean's lip and then taking it between his teeth and pulling.

"Don’t happen to have any lube, do you?" Dean asks in between nips to his jaw and deep, lavishing kisses to his mouth.

“Bottom dresser drawer.”

Dean's up and back in mere seconds, tugging Castiel back on top of him, allowing Cas to thrust his tongue into Dean's mouth and reach for the lube, squirting a modest amount into Dean's palm.

"More," Dean requests absently. He hasn't looked to see how much is there, but it doesn't feel like enough.

"I like the burn," Cas tells him, then drops the bottle by the side of the couch and pulls himself back against Dean.

Dean's brain stutters a little at the comment, and he pauses for a moment before slicking up his fingers while trying to salvage some for himself when the time comes. He ghosts his hand underneath Castiel and pushes at the waistband of Cas's underwear, trying to get them fully off, and it’s Castiel who stops kissing this time.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his eyes blinking and unfocused.

"Trying to get you naked."

"You have easy access to everything you need; Superman stays."

It seems a strange argument to have with Dean still fully clothed, but the Superman underwear are doing things to Dean and his only resolution is to get them gone.

Castiel gets tired of waiting, Dean assumes, because he's lining their dicks up and then moving against Dean, moaning with abandon in Dean's ear when he finds a suitable pace against the rough denim between them. Dean's fingers slide into place, and he's about to get on with the show until he realizes Cas's god-awful music is still playing.

"Wait, hold up," Dean fits a steadying hand to Castiel's hip. "I'm not having sex to the Smiths."

Castiel narrows his eyes before fumbling around on the coffee table for the remote. Dean thinks he's won, prepares to revel in his small victory when Castiel cranks up the music.

"Yes," he snaps back, "you are." Castiel grabs Dean's lubed up fingers and roughly moves one beneath him before sinking back on to it until it's inside him just past the first knuckle. "Now, Dean," he murmurs hot and low against Dean's ear, his lips brushing against Dean's piercings, " _take care of me_."

At that point, Dean could care less what's wafting from the speakers. It could be  _The Sound of_ fucking  _Music,_ and it wouldn't matter. All that matters is the body on top of him.

He still manages to keep some dignity intact with a muttered, "Fucking princess," but they both know it's a half-hearted attempt at saving face.

Dean takes his time opening Cas up even though he can feel the other man growing impatient on top of him. With Dean scissoring him open deep and languid, Cas is trying to suppress these addictive little gasps that Dean could get high on. As soon as one does slip out, Dean craves more. He can feel Castiel clinging to them, attempting to force them down so Dean works that much harder to draw them out.

Castiel opens up beautifully on Dean's fingers. When he feels like Cas is ready, Dean pulls his fingers out and reaches down with one hand to work the button of his jeans open. It's a daunting task with only one hand, his other refusing to leave Cas's warm, soft skin, and only half his brain focused on himself. He finally succeeds, though, and wastes no time in sliding his zipper down and working himself out of his jeans and boxer briefs.

Cas opens his mouth – to bitch, Dean's sure of it – but Dean doesn't give him the chance. He manhandles Castiel until he's turned away from Dean, applies what's left of the lube to himself and then guides Castiel down onto his own erection. Where the prep was slow and gentle, the main event is fast and sharp, Castiel's ass hitting against Dean's hips as Dean bottoms out, Castiel inhaling in a quick gasp.

Dean wraps a hand around the base of Castiel's cock and places his other hand low on Cas's belly. "Okay, sweetheart, you gonna help me out, or do I have to do all the work again?" Dean pants into Castiel's ear. The tremor in his voice barely held at bay, Dean's vision temporarily whites out with how tight and slick Cas feels around him, and Dean's having trouble keeping himself together, his pleasure practically bursting at the seams.

"What do you mean,  _again_? You think last time you were so gr-" Dean snaps his hips up, pushing himself further into Castiel, effectively shutting him up.

Castiel goes loose and pliant against Dean, leaning all his weight on Dean's chest, and Dean knows then that yes, he is going to have to do all the work again.

Dean shifts a little, and Castiel, as if preparing himself for the pounding of his life, reaches up behind him and cups a hand around Dean's neck. He rests his other hand on top of Dean's where it rests on Cas's pelvic bone and laces his fingers through Dean's, hanging on tight. It's an intimate gesture, and it might almost feel better than being inside of Cas - if, you know, Dean were into intimate crap like that.

Dean manages a few seconds to catch his breath, and then he starts to move.

Castiel is writhing on top of him, Dean getting drunk just from the sounds the guy makes when Dean rubs up against that spot inside him that causes Castiel's toes to curl. Somehow Dean got the fucking Superman underwear at least down around Castiel's knees, but that's where they've stayed.

Dean accepts the compromise. The music has finally stopped, too, which Dean considers a win.

As he thrusts quick and deep into Castiel, he's doing his best to jack him to the same rhythm, but the closer Dean grows to climax, the more erratic his tight strokes become. He'd feel bad if it weren't for the steady chant of, "Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean," tumbling from Cas's lips as he squirms restlessly on top of Dean, egging Dean on in the best of ways.

The only warning Dean gets that Cas is going to spill is the sudden clench around him, and then there's warm liquid spurting out all over his hand and Cas gasps out a small cry. The moment Cas goes tighter around him, Dean's coming too, his release leaking out inside Castiel, his chest heaving against the other man's back in tandem with Cas's own labored breathing.  They both lay there, riding out their orgasms together, and Dean thinks offhandedly that he can't remember the last time he went over the edge  _with_ someone.

It's only when a bit of the orgasm-haze has cleared that Dean realizes they didn't use a condom. He vaguely remembers Castiel's Holier Than Thou speech from last time when Dean had asked him about being clean and hopes to high heaven the guy was telling the truth.

He looks down at Castiel, whose breathing has grown slow and steady, and brushes the sweaty curls from his forehead. "Not falling asleep on me, are you?"

"Mmmm."

"Not yet," Dean tells him. He pulls out of Cas slowly and struggles to get up; Castiel is like a dead weight against him.

"Winchester, if you get off this couch, don't be expected to be allowed back on it," Cas tells him with his eyes closed and his underwear still hanging around his knees.

"I'm just gonna clean up," Dean assures him. It feels oddly domestic to be saying that to someone he's only slept with twice in a hazy swirl of snark and intoxication. But, it doesn't feel weird to talk with Cas like that even though they hardly know each other. Castiel is the first person in a long line of people that Dean's ever even wanted to stay the night with after sex, and Dean doesn't even know where to begin in figuring that out. So, he doesn't try. He'll think on the hard stuff later. For now, the only thing on his mind is cleaning up and wrapping himself around Cas for the night.

He arranges a grumbling Castiel into a sitting position against the couch and sets out to find something to clean them up with.

When Dean steps into the bathroom, the first thing he sees is his sweatshirt hanging from the hook on the back of the door. "Don't know where it is, my ass," he mutters, but he leaves the sweatshirt where it is, going instead for the cupboard, rooting around until he finds a washcloth.

He returns to Castiel with a warm washcloth in hand and cleans the other man up before tugging Castiel's beloved underwear back up until they're resting low on his hips. He wipes himself down and then slips out of his jeans and t-shirt, tosses the washcloth off to the side and climbs back on the couch.

They really should move to the bed; the couch, which is hardly big enough to fuck on, is definitely not big enough to be slept on by two grown men, but Dean lies down nonetheless and settles Castiel between his bowed legs.

He expects Castiel to grumble at him, kick him out now that they've both gotten off, but the guy's eyes are still closed, his head nodding aimlessly as he lays it down on Dean's chest. Dean wraps an arm around Castiel's back, and his eyelids droop, heavy from the alcohol still burning in his system and the post coital feeling now curling around him.

Right before he drops off into a deep velvety sleep, something occurs to him.

"Hey, Cas," he mutters quietly into the darkness, not waiting for a response, "you didn't really think my name was Dan, did you?"

Castiel sighs against him, "Go to sleep, Dean," he mumbles thickly.

So, Dean does.


	5. Chapter 5

Eight o'clock comes harsh and early for Castiel, the sun burning bright in the sky, shining in through the big window sending a gentle warmth falling on his back.

He begins to wake in stages, first registering that he's in his apartment - his eyes blinking open and landing on _his_ television, _his_ coffee table - but not in his bed. Next is the fact that he is not alone. The body underneath him breathing deep and steady is a blaring indication of that. He sees the freckled shoulders and realizes it's Dean before ever even chancing a glance to the man's face. When he does look at Dean's face, his full lips are parted slightly, eyelids heavy and closed.

What doesn't make sense is: why Dean? Why is it he's woken up two times, two weekends in a row to the even breathing, sleep warm body of Dean Winchester?

It's not until Castiel carefully extracts himself from Dean's hold and is quietly padding across his apartment for some clothing that the final realization comes to him. The achy pull of his leg muscles and tenderness in his nether regions tells him he got royally and properly fucked last night. By Dean Winchester.

Castiel silently chastises himself as he pulls a wardrobe drawer open and tugs out a pair of jeans. He winces as he puts them on, one leg and then the other going through the holes in a quiet shuffle. He shrugs on a loose, plaid flannel and buttons it hastily to his sternum before slipping into some shoes and padding back across his apartment. It's a cowardly move, really, to leave a man in Castiel's own apartment while he runs away to hide, but his fight or flight instincts are kicking in and Castiel has always been known to fly.

He lets himself out as quietly as possible, shooing Meg out of the way, and retreats down the hall.

Grace Cafe is about the only place open this early on a Sunday, so Castiel slips inside, checking behind him to make sure he wasn't unknowingly followed, then slumps up to the counter.

Alfie is there behind the register, reading Hemingway and paying attention to absolutely nothing else. Castiel looms in front of his cousin for a good few seconds before the kid looks up and realizes he's got a customer.

Alfie smiles at Castiel and bookmarks his page, "Morning, Castiel." It's too cheery for seven a.m. - too cheery for any time, really - but Alfie has always been overly optimistic, so it comes as no surprise.

"Good morning, Alfie."

"You want some coffee or something? Your usual?"

Castiel nods, grateful to his cousin for not asking Castiel to make frivolous decisions this early in the morning. Alfie rings up the drink, and Castiel sits at a table around the corner, out of direct view of the big windows in the front of the cafe. Folding his arms on the table, he rests his head on them and waits for his coffee.

He may have left Dean back at his apartment, but the irritating man with flagrant green eyes and Smurf colored hair won't leave the forefront of Castiel's brain. He can't settle on which is more aggravating, Dean or the fact that Castiel can't stop dwelling on him.

Everything about Dean, from the black nail lacquer he wears on his nails to the way he pokes and prods and pests until Castiel is at his snapping point, boils underneath Castiel's skin and makes him feel like doing whatever it takes to get the man out of his head.

Underneath all that though, underneath the annoyance and insulting banter, buried beneath their vast opposites and impossibly differing backgrounds, Castiel is strangely drawn to Dean like a moth to a flame. There are things about Dean, flickers of a man beneath the surface that Castiel has snatched here and there over the past week or so, that taps on the walls he's so carefully set up around himself to keep people out and demands attention. The way Sam's face goes soft and proud when he talks about his big brother, the way Dean seems to take care of people whether he knows them or not, the way his guard comes down when he thinks no one is paying attention, showing this raw vulnerability he keeps tucked away.

It's those things that both terrify Castiel and intrigue him. How Dean can be both that man and the one who talks down about the way Castiel dresses and the music he listens to, makes jabs at his lifestyle when Dean's own is so very loud and brazen, completely baffles Castiel and has his head spinning.

Alfie puts a tall cardboard cup down in front of Castiel and a gooey orange roll whose scent sneaks up Castiel's nose and placates the blizzard of thoughts in his head a little.

"Thank you, Alfie," he mutters. Alfie smiles at him and leaves him alone to eat his breakfast.

He's only just sipped at his coffee and taken a few bites of the orange roll when Anna breezes in, the chime above the door making Castiel's head snap up in fear he's been discovered. When he sees his cousin's familiar red hair, pulled into a messy bun at the crown of her head, Castiel relaxes.

But then, Anna spots him and is crossing the cafe in a few graceful steps, coming to stop in front of Castiel's table. The look in her wide, grey eyes tells him she knows something, and Castiel can't bring himself to meet her gaze when he realizes that. He raises the coffee cup to his lips and sips at the steamy, black liquid therein, taking his time before putting the cup down and finally greeting his cousin.

"Anna," he says simply.

"What are you doing here so early on a Sunday?" Her voice sounds almost accusatory and Castiel's stomach twists.

"Having breakfast," Castiel states elusively as if there's nothing more to say.

Anna sets her bag on an empty chair at the table and slides onto the table top looking down at Castiel. Alfie is now peering around the corner, mild interest flickering in his eyes, and Castiel sighs. The two of them, and their father Gabriel, had always been kind to Castiel and his family, but they'd also always been extremely curious, nosey almost.

"Why aren't you at your apartment? Did he not find you last night?"

That's when Alfie joins them at the table. He's looking down now at Castiel, too, an excited smile on his face.

"Did who find you?"

Anna turns her eyes to her brother, "Dean Winchester."

Castiel groans and sinks down in his chair. Perhaps staying in his apartment and dealing with Dean would have been easier than being interrogated by his family.

Anna watches him for a brief moment, not saying anything, a contemplative look marring her features. Finally, she reaches out and runs a finger gently over what she can see of the tattoo that rests over Castiel's heart. "Does he know?" she asks quietly.

"Yes," he states giving his cousin a wide smile and leaning back in his chair where his chest will be out of reach of her fingers. "We shared all of our deepest secrets with each other."

Anna tsks at his reaction, but he doesn't care; his private life stays private, she knows that.

Anna shakes her head and pulls a flaky bite off his orange roll, popping it in her mouth. "Are you going to see him again?"

Castiel locks his eyes on Anna's and raises his cup to his lips, drinking at length until Anna gets the hint that he's done talking. He'd told himself he wasn't going to sleep with Dean again and then he had, and now he can't stop thinking about the other man and it's all so confusing and overwhelming. Castiel doesn't feel cut out for dealing with the emotions warring inside him, which is why he typically keeps himself fairly numb, so he doesn't have to deal.

He needs to feel numb again.

Anna takes a few more bites of his orange roll and slides off the table leaving Castiel alone to wallow. "Okay Cas,” she shoots over her shoulder, “I know you'll talk when you're ready."

"Nothing to talk about," he grumbles, "not happening again." And this time, Castiel plans to keep to his word.

A handful of minutes later, just as Castiel thinks he's in the clear from talking anymore about Dean, Alfie points out the window.

"Is that him?" he asks. "The guy with all the piercings and the weird hair?"

Castiel's stomach drops, and he leaps from his chair and joins Alfie and Anna behind the counter. From their place at the front of the store they can see out the big windows and down the street where Dean is jogging across the street to Shurley’s’ parking lot.

"That's him," Castiel replies darkly, watching from behind his cousins as Dean disappears around the corner. It's been about a half hour since Castiel left the apartment, and he wonders if Dean woke up and immediately left or if he waited around to see if Castiel would return.

Anna looks over her shoulder at him and tuts to show her disapproval. "Coward," she mumbles.

Castiel doesn't defend himself.

**:::**

Castiel spends the rest of the weekend getting high, lounging in his underwear and alternating between Vampire Weekend EPs and Grizzly Bear albums. He creates a drinking game according to how often Dean slips into his mind superfluously. The way he looked, with a guarded kind of hope, standing in Castiel's doorway, the way he'd felt inside Castiel, the tender aftercare he's administered twice now; it all makes Castiel feel torn. Torn between wanting to see Dean again, to pick him apart and learn the workings of his brain and wanting to punch him right in the face.

By the time Sunday night crawls into existence, the silver beams of the moon shining into the apartment casting a calming glow on everything, Castiel is out of alcohol.

**:::**

Wednesday afternoon brings Sam into Rapture Records – all smiles – with a brightly colored flyer in his hand, much like the one Ruby had with her some weeks ago. He putters around patiently until Castiel's not helping anyone before approaching the counter Castiel so rarely leaves during his shifts.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel greets. He ignores the disappointed drop his stomach does when it appears Dean is not with Sam.

"Hey, Castiel! How's it going?"

"Fine, thank you. Is there something I can help you with?" Castiel eyes Sam curiously, the other man practically bouncing, an excitement beaming out of him.

"So get this," Sam begins, a wide smile taking up half his face, his eyes glowing with glee. "Dean got the Feathers to play at the Bunker this weekend. I don't know how, but he did."

Castiel's brain grounds to a halt. The Feathers were a locally based folk rock band that he'd been following since their first appearance at Grace Cafe long before record deals and tour dates found them. It doesn't come as a surprise to Castiel they're still highly sought after, but they aren't typically the sound the Bunker hosts – the venue drawing in more of a punk and rock driven crowd. The question is, what is Dean doing getting a band like the Feathers to play at a place like the Bunker?

Sam's voice fades back in, luring Castiel back into the conversation.

"There are going to be a couple of other bands, punk bands, the Hell Hounds and Holy Fire, but guess who's opening the show?"

It's apparent _this_ piece of information is what Sam is so excited about.

"The Rubies?" Castiel guesses.

Sam slaps the flyer on the counter in front of Castiel happily, "The Rubies!"

Castiel inwardly groans before picking up the flyer. Ruby is going to be nothing short of smug now, he can feel it in his bones. He picks up the flyer and examines it, Sam still chattering happily in the background about how excited Ruby is and what a big break this is for them. Castiel's eyes zero in on the Feathers' logo and he can't help but wonder if Dean getting them to play was a personal invitation to Castiel.

Friday night, 8:30. He would have to find out.

**:::**

"I would ask if you're coming to the show tomorrow night, but I'm pretty sure I already know the answer."

Castiel casts a glance in his cousin's direction, scowling at the all-knowing smirk on her face. Since he last saw her, Ruby has added bright red streaks to her hair and is now sporting a nose ring he's sure his uncle Luc is just crazy about. It seems the more she hangs around Sam Winchester, the more she blends in to his lifestyle.

"The Feathers are playing," he points out, pulling a stack of records out of their place and rearranging them alphabetically – a task he knows Ruby will have destroyed by tomorrow afternoon, "of course I'm going."

"Right," Ruby drawls, "the Feathers."

He doesn't want to ask, Ruby's tone indicating she's baiting him for a conversation he doesn't want to have, but she's behind him and then beside him, smiling that know-it-all smile the whole time. Instead of allowing Castiel this sacred time to organize and give his mind some peace, it's obvious Ruby's going to silently pester him until he acknowledges her.

"What?" Castiel finally snaps.

"Are you sure that's not the only reason you're going, Cas?"

Castiel pushes a few records back into their designated spot and turns to face his cousin straight on. "Why don't you just tell me what it is you're implying so we don't have to play Twenty Questions," he suggests.

"I'm talking about Dean," Ruby states, "I know you know he'll be there."

"And?" Castiel schools his expression, keeps his voice carefully monotone.

" _And_  word on the street is that you two have been shacking up together," Ruby explains.

Nervousness pricks at Castiel's skin – he'd prefer there not to be words anywhere about him – but he ignores it, shaking his head and turning back to the records. "Don't believe everything you hear, Ruby.”

"So, you haven't been sleeping with him?"

Castiel doesn't give her the satisfaction of making eye contact as he answers, "I don't kiss and tell," and leaves her to gawk after him.

It takes everything in his power not to go back and finish rearranging the store, but the will to be left alone wins out.  

**:::**

Castiel rolls an unlit joint between the tips of his fingers debating whether to get himself a little loose before going to the concert. He's already showered and doesn't necessarily want to show up smelling like weed, but the possibility of seeing Dean again, just being around so many people in general, sets his nerves on edge.

He's still thinking about it when his phone chimes with a message from Anna telling him she's waiting for him downstairs. He stows the joint for later and leaves his apartment.

Outside Castiel climbs into the passenger side of Anna's Volvo 240. In the back seat is Anna's best friend, Chuck – a guy that merely showed up several years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, and ended up opening one of the most successful bars this side of the Scioto – and his girlfriend, Becky, who’s chattering incessantly about how stunning the Feathers' lead singer, Ion Steel, is.

"He speaks to me on a spiritual level," she states seriously, "his lyrics penetrate my soul."

"Becky, don't ever use the word 'penetrate' again," Castiel clips from the front seat, "especially in reference to Ion Steel." The sound of her voice grates on Castiel's nerves, and he wishes he had taken at least a few hits before leaving. He's already feeling jittery.

Becky ignores his comment and continues on about not only the lead singer but the other members in the band as well. Castiel shakes his head, and Anna offers him a sympathetic smile.

They pull up to the Bunker a bit before the Rubies are set to hit the stage, and there's already next to nowhere to park. They find a spot some distance away and mix in with the throngs of others headed in the same direction.

Inside, Castiel bolts for the bar, leaving Anna to fend for herself with Chuck and Becky. Jo is there again, Tessa too, and as Castiel takes a seat at the bar, Jo approaches him with a quirk of her lips and narrowed eyes, questioning.

"You again, huh?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest.

"I came by invitation only," Castiel assures her.

"Ruby again?"

"Sam, actually," he corrects.

"I figured a bunch of your kind would be out tonight anyway. Dean got that band to play that you all love so much. The Wings or something? Don't know what the hell he was thinking."

"Neither do I," he admits, "and it's the Feathers."

"Yeah well, whatever. Not the kind of band we usually have around here. They're weird."

"Said the girl with the multi-colored mullet," Castiel counters.

Jo attempts to hide a smile, but it breaks out across her face and lights up her eyes and Castiel knows he's won. "Touché," she says, "what can I get ya? You want a PBR? We actually stocked up on it for tonight, had to appeal to the masses."  

Castiel shakes his head and casts a prayer to the heavens for the dead horse that's being kicked over that damn beer. He orders a whiskey and nurses it quietly as he observes Jo and Tessa move about the bar, helping other customers, and mostly leaving him to his own devices.

Halfway through his drink, a warm hand settles on his shoulder, and if the black fingernails aren't indication enough that it's Dean, the familiar scent of his aftershave is. Castiel grumbles internally for having classified anything about Dean as 'familiar', especially the way he smells.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, settling himself on the stool right next to Castiel. Cas turns and all at once he's met with Dean's bright green eyes, lined in black, and swimming with something Castiel can't place.

Castiel takes a minute to take in the other man's appearance, just for the sake of looking, and says nothing in return. Dean's hair is a muted red this time, his piercings glinting in the bright lights echoing in the room from the bar, and he's clad in all black as per usual.

"Nice hair," Castiel finally says in way of greeting. And he kind of means it. The red is more subtle than the blue Dean's been sporting and Castiel likes the way it looks. It's less obnoxious, if nothing else.

Dean's eyes flick down to Castiel's shirt, eyeing the Smiths logo thereon, and then back to Castiel's face. "Nice shirt."

Castiel simply nods and raises his drink to his lips.

"So, I gotta know," Dean says arranging himself on the stool so he's leaning on the counter and his attention is fully fixed on Castiel. Jo approaches him, but he shakes his head at her and she moves on to the next customer. "Do you usually leave people you hardly know alone in your apartment? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, Cas, bailing on me the morning after when were at my house, I get. But hightailing it out of your own apartment? Am I really that bad of a lay?"

The bluntness of Dean’s questions has Castiel squirming in his seat. It agitates him how awkward he feels around Dean when they've only slept together twice. But then, maybe that's the reason behind the awkwardness in the first place.

"Tell me something, Dean," Castiel says, mourning his empty glass. "Is it habitual for you to invite a band whose music is completely different in genre than the ones who typically play this venue?”

Dean shrugs off the comment. "I had a spot to fill, and I filled it.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Castiel’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Here I was thinking this was some kind of desperate attempt to get my attention."

“They were in town." Dean’s response is quick. Almost too quick.

Castiel’s eyes narrow, prodding along the edges of Dean’s masked expression. "A surprise considering their home base is roughly thirty minutes away."

"I’m a firm believer in coincidences, Cas. ‘Sides, got you out here, didn't it?" The two statements contradict one another, but the latter loosens butterflies in Castiel's stomach.

"If you wanted to see me again, you could have just asked," Castiel points out, not wanting to let on how much he's being affected by Dean.

"Considering our last run-in, do you blame me for thinking you’d've said no? You're not exactly friendly, man."

"Then why bother seeing me again?" It's what Castiel has been wondering since after their first time together. Why him? Why Castiel? He hadn't been hospitable to Dean from their very first meeting, yet Dean continued to seek him out, and Castiel's at a loss for why. He never receives an answer though, Sam appearing out of nowhere to loom over the two of them. He greets them both with a hand on each of their shoulders and a big grin on his face.

"They're about to start," he seems no less excited than he was in the record store. "You gonna come down?"

Dean's eyes don't leave Castiel's face as he says, "Yeah, Sammy, we're coming."

Castiel's gaze slides elsewhere, away from the imploring depths that are Dean's eyes. He's grateful for the interruption despite it meaning he may never learn why Dean Winchester keeps coming back for more.

~

The ground level is standing room only, and as Castiel pushes his way to a decent spot, he welcomes the familiar anticipation of being enveloped in the music, he and the crowd joining under one purpose, making him feel like a part of something without the usual anxiety of human interaction.

Anna, Chuck, and Becky have been lost somewhere in the fray, which is just as well for Castiel as it's not in him to entertain tonight – nor is it to run circles trying to keep Anna away from Dean. He's already compromised his comfort zone once in the last couple of weeks in the name of music, no way in hell is he going to let that happen tonight.

The crowd quiets as the Rubies take the stage, chains and mohawks blending with bow ties and skinny jeans until everyone's just waves in a sea of black, lit only by the stage lights.

Dean and Sam aren't too far away but trying to scream at each other over the music would be futile, so aside from Sam's encouraging smiles thrown his way every now and then and Dean shaking his head at Sam's enthusiasm, Castiel is mostly left alone while the Rubies play their set.

After them comes Holy Fire – a band Castiel finds barely tolerable – and finally the Feathers are on deck. Sam has wandered off to find Ruby, but Dean has stayed dutifully near Castiel, despite them not speaking to one another. It's unnerving, and Castiel is just considering relocating when Ion Steel takes the stage, shouting things at the crowd as his band begins to play behind him. Losing himself to the twang of a banjo and beat of the drums, Castiel doesn't give moving a second thought.

It isn't until the Feathers switch to a much slower tempo Castiel even remembers Dean's there. As the first few chords of  _Angel_  sound through the air, Castiel feels fingers slide around his waist, then palms settle into place on either side of his hips, tugging him backwards until his body is flush with Dean's.

"You know," Dean mutters in Cas's ear, "I don't hate them."

Dean's chest is warm against Castiel's back but ironically, Castiel shivers. Being in such close proximity to Dean short circuits his brain and makes the edges of reality blurred and strange. He feels like he loses who he is when he's with Dean, like Dean can see behind the curtain Castiel keeps carefully sealed, and it stirs something in him. Something he doesn't want to acknowledge.

"I thought I would," Dean continues, low and calm either not picking up on Castiel's rigid form or ignoring it completely, "but I don't."

Castiel doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do. If he lets himself fall into this, allows himself to explore what Dean Winchester could be to him, he's afraid of breaking the person he's so carefully molded himself into; the one who's good at keeping people out and flushing out the pain that threatens to eat him from the inside out every day. If he explores this, it could lead to talking, and explanations, and  _feeling_ , none of which Castiel is emotionally equipped to handle.  

He needs to remain disconnected. Disconnected and numb.

Castiel goes to slide from beneath Dean's touch but then Dean is wrapping his arms around Castiel's waist and holding him tight against him. His arms are strong but gentle and Castiel wants to melt into them, to let Dean be something more than what he is.

“Where you goin'?” Dean asks, lips still so close to Castiel's ear.

Castiel keeps his tone steady, disinterested. “To the bar.”

"Stay," Dean requests quietly, and it's too much, too intimate. Clearly Dean's gotten the idea they're  _something_  to one another, that this isn't just sex between them, and Castiel needs to make his intentions clear. Very,  _very_  clear. So, he turns in Dean's arms, closing his mouth over the other man's, working his tongue between Dean's lips.

Dean lets out a small gasp, eyes going wide in surprise as Castiel grabs fistsful of Dean's shirt, hauling him in and kissing him with enough force Dean's stumbling backwards and landing against the wall.

It only takes him a second to get on board, hands finding Castiel's hips again, slipping beneath his t-shirt and palming Castiel's overheated skin.

Reaching between them, Castiel cups Dean in his jeans, squeezing before pulling away completely, their lips leaving one another's with an obnoxious smack.

Dean's staring at him, no  _gaping –_ desire flashing bright and hungry in his eyes _–_ when Castiel tears himself away. Whether he got his point across or not, Dean's spell is quickly taking over, the gentleness that belies his hard edges, the interest he shows in Castiel despite being able to see how clearly fucked up Castiel is, and Castiel needs to get away.

The bar is mostly vacant, Tessa and Jo still stationed behind it, and two or three others Castiel might recognize from the last time he was mixed in with the Winchester's crowd. He sits a few stools away from a guy with a mullet and a woman in a tight black tank top, dark curls framing her face, soulful eyes going soft when she turns to smile at him. He nods at her once, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge her, flagging Tessa down for another whiskey.

He's got his phone out, ready to pin down Anna and suggest they hightail it out before the traffic gets ferocious when the barstool next to his slides out and Castiel looks up to see Dean settling onto it. Castiel sighs into his drink.

“You really can't take a hint, can you, Winchester,” he grumbles.

“Nope.” Dean’s voice is cheerful. “I'm more of a straightforward kinda guy. If you haven't noticed.”

Unfortunately, Castiel has noticed. And unfortunately, it's one of the things that keeps drawing him to Dean. Unfortunately. “Oh, I've noticed alright,” Castiel mutters, taking a hearty swallow of whiskey.

“Now that we're on the same page about that, you got something to say to me?”

 _Yes_ , Castiel thinks, but what that something is he has no idea. He's split down the middle contradicting thoughts seesawing in his head.  _Leave me alone, please don't leave. Leave me alone, please don't leave. Leave me alone... Please. Don't. Leave._ “No,” Castiel says instead, ignoring the shock that's in Dean's eyes one moment and gone the next. Castiel fixes his gaze to the amber liquid swirling at the bottom of his glass. He can still feel Dean's eyes on him, but he doesn't look up again until the scrape of the stool next to Dean's gives somewhere else for Castiel to focus his attention.

The dark-haired woman has moved to sit next to Dean, her eyes sultry and assessing.

"Hey Dean," she says punching him lightly on the shoulder, "friend of yours?"

Dean looks at Castiel, "Something like that," he grouses. The woman sticks her hand out, stretching it across the bar for Castiel to shake.

"I'm Pamela." she says.

"Castiel."

"Interesting name, angel?" She quirks a brow at Castiel in question, and he nods. She smiles then, in a knowing sort of way. "You've got a lot going on here," she remarks, waving her hand around in front of Castiel.

He looks to Dean for clarification.

"Pamela's a psychic," Dean explains. "She can 'sense things about people.'"

"Like you, for instance," Pamela intervenes, "you've got a lot going on in that head of yours."

"So, you mentioned," Castiel grates. Something about Pamela makes him feel uncomfortable, and he does not want to have anything to do with her  _sensing things about people_  whether she's legit or not.

"You should let it go," she offers, eyes boring into Castiel, deep and penetrating. His skin crawls at her statement, his chest burning anxiously. There's no way she could know. No possible way, yet it hits that vulnerable spot inside him, and a bolt of pain surges through him, heart aching.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you should let it go. He wants you to be happy for the time you had together, not wallowing in misery that it's over."

Nausea roils in Castiel's stomach, and the room starts to spin, heart hammering in his chest. His first instinct is to flee, it always has been, but his legs are like lead and his lungs are closing up, the air in the room suddenly turning thick and suffocating.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Castiel growls at her. Pamela narrows her eyes in speculation, and that's when Castiel's body catches up with his brain.

He has to get out. Now.

He pushes off from the stool and stalks out of the bar on shaky legs, leaving Pamela to shake her head slowly and Dean to gape.

Castiel doesn't know where he's going, but he has to get away.

He wanders aimlessly around the building, moving away from the sound of music and deeper into the empty halls; fuck Anna for disappearing. Coming upon a vacant billiards room, he pulls his American Spirits from his back pocket and lights one up, fingers trembling around his lighter. He fumbles with his phone, shooting Anna a quick  _Where are you?_  before shoving it back in his pocket and giving himself a moment to inhale.

He paces back and forth taking drags of his cigarette as Pamela's words scream at him from the silent confines of his brain. This. This is what happens when he lets his guard down, when he stops living each day carefully so as to keep the pain from filtering in through the cracks and drowning him alive.

It's been nearly two years since his world crumbled around him, but the weight of it doesn't seem any less apparent than it was all that time ago when he was a bright, ambitious college student with hope and purpose.

Spinning on his heel, Castiel heads for one of the pool tables, sliding onto the green felt with a gentle scrape of his skinny jeans, and laying himself on his back. He props his feet on the edge of the table and fists a hand in his hair, closing his eyes and letting the nicotine ebb into his system and calm his fraying nerves.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean stares at Pamela, her face twisted in thought.

"What the hell was all that about?" he demands.

Pamela fixes her gaze on him, seeming to come back to reality. She lets out a long sigh. "I overstepped. You should talk to him."

"About what?" Dean grates. He loves Pamela, he does, but seeing the way all the color left Cas's face not sixty seconds ago, how his hands shook, is not something he wants to see again any time soon.

Pamela's face softens into a smile, and she puts a hand on Dean's arm, as if to calm him. "I've already said too much," she says. "I didn't realize how deep-" she stops, shakes her head letting out a small sigh, "just go talk to him."

"I don't even know where the fuck he went," Dean mutters as he heads out of the bar, pushing past a small group of people whose pants are tighter than Cas's. His head is still spinning as he steps into the deserted hallway. For all he knows Cas has already put the Bunker in his rear view mirror. Though Dean had seen Castiel arrive with Anna and a few others. Chances are, unless he found her in record timing and hightailed it outta Dodge, Cas is probably still around the Bunker somewhere.

Making his way down the hall in the same direction he saw Cas head, Dean picks out the scent of nicotine cluring out into the hall. Ducking into the quiet of the billiards room, he spots Cas immediately, lying on top of one of the pool tables, smoking a cigarette. His legs are bent at the knee, feet resting on the edge of the pool table, and the hand not holding his cigarette is lost in his hair, gripping tight if the strain of his forearm is anything to go by.

Dean closes and locks the door behind him before approaching. He takes Castiel's calves in either of his hands and lowers the other man's legs until they dangle over the table, settling himself between them and leaning over him, hands on either side of Castiel's ribs.

"Hey.”

Castiel's eyes are closed, and they remain that way even when he responds. "Not now, Dean, just leave me alone."

"No can do, man, you turned white as a ghost in there; what's up?"

Castiel puffs on his cigarette, "I said leave me alone."

The smell of menthol hangs heavy in the air, and Dean watches the torpid rise and fall of Cas's chest as he breaths in the nicotine, holds it in his lungs, then exhales it from between partially pursed lips in a steady plume of smoke.

"C'mon, Cas. Talk to me."

Castiel lets out a sigh, all crestfallen and irritated and sits up, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette on the edge of the pool table before looking at Dean. "What is it you want me to say, Dean?" His eyes are hooded, tired and clouded with something Dean's been trying to understand since he first met the guy. His gaze locks on Dean's, and it's Dean who looks away first.

"I don't know, man. I just wanted to see if you're okay," he finally concedes.

"I'm okay," Cas responds, and it's hollow, forced in a way only someone beyond exhausted could sound.

Dean eyes him warily, but Castiel isn't looking at him anymore, gone to studying his hands, the ridges in his skin, the slight tremble in his fingers. Dean reaches out and wraps his hands around Castiel's own, leaning in and brushing his lips against Castiel's jaw. It's an intimate response but it's instinctual, and Dean doesn't bother trying to think it out before acting.

"Cas," he murmurs as his lips wander to tug at Castiel's earlobe, "c'mon, babe. You don’t sound okay. What can I do?"

"Stop it, Dean," Castiel murmurs.

"Stop what?"

"This, whatever you're doing," Castiel says pushing at Dean's chest. "Just stop."

Dean takes a step back and studies Castiel. His blue eyes flicker, perturbed, tired.

"I'm just trying to-"

"Just trying to what, Dean?" Castiel snaps, eyes flashing. "Help? No one can help me, e _specially_  not you. Sleeping with me a couple of times does not give you a free pass into my personal life."

"I don't know," Dean begins to say, a defensive smirk growing on his face, but Castiel shakes his head and doesn't let Dean continue.

"Having sex with you was a mistake, Dean, nothing more. Don't make a fool of yourself by creating something out of nothing."

The insult hits Dean like a slap to the face, crushing any sympathy he'd been feeling just seconds before. He'd asked if Castiel had anything to say, offered the guy a fucking out, and Cas had said,  _No_.

"What the hell is your problem, man?" It’s like the record store all over again. Same fight, different backdrop. "Why are you such a dick all the time? Mommy didn't hug you enough when you were a kid or something?"

Castiel shakes his head, "Back to assuming you know anything about me, hmm? Apparently, progression isn't your strong suit." He garnishes the statement with a dark chuckle, his eyes wandering away from Dean's.

"Yeah, well I know enough to know something fucked you up," Dean grates back, "and whatever it was, you probably had it coming, treating people like complete shit the way you do."

Castiel's head snaps up, something cracked open and broken crossing his features, and Dean knows immediately he's said the wrong thing.

"Cas, I-" Dean starts, but Castiel is on his feet with a finger jabbing at Dean's chest, his eyes furious, and suddenly all the words die in Dean's throat.

" _Fuck you_ ," Castiel spits.

Dean swallows hard, unable to speak, and Castiel stalks out of the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and his shoulders bunched in anger.

Dean runs a hand over his mouth, a heavy sinking feeling filling his stomach as he watches him leave. When the door slams behind Castiel, Dean cringes.

" _Dammit_ ," he mutters to himself.

**:::**

Dean gets hardly any sleep that night, the devastated look on Castiel's face burned into his brain like an image on a television screen that's been left on too long.

It eats at him throughout the following day, and by the time five o'clock rolls around, Dean's pacing the floor of his bedroom, a twisting in his gut and a weight on his chest.

He has to apologize. Whether or not Castiel accepts it, and whether or not Dean's completely ruined whatever possibility there was between them, he has to apologize.

Snatching his keys off their spot on his bookshelf, Dean makes a hasty retreat out of his room. He runs into Sam in the hallway, his brother reaching out a mammoth paw and placing it on Dean's shoulder.

"Where's the fire, Dean?" He gives Dean a curious look.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean mutters, "I just have something I gotta take care of."

Sam looks confused, but he drops his hand to his side and nods, "Everything okay?"

Dean flashes Sam an easy smile despite the anxiety pulsing through him, "Just peachy."

"Okay," Sam frowns as Dean steps around him and carries on down the hall. "We still on for lunch tomorrow?" Sam shouts after him.

"One-thirty," Dean confirms without turning around. He feels a little guilty for leaving Sam in the dark, but that's an  _I fucked up_ for another day.

When Dean finally pulls up in front of Rapture Records, his heart is racing. He's not even sure if Castiel's working, but he is sure it's the only way he's gonna catch the guy. If Castiel is tucked away in his apartment, there's no way Dean's getting a face-to-face meeting.

Hurrying across the sidewalk to the record store, Dean doesn’t know what it is he plans to say. Or if Cas will even listen. He just knows he has to try.

The bell above the door jingles as Dean enters and his eyes immediately fall on Castiel. The other man's back is turned toward the door, his arms stretched above his head as he slides some records on the shelf above him, and Dean's grateful for the extra few seconds he has to collect himself and gather his thoughts.

"We close in ten minutes," Castiel states as he turns around. When he spots Dean, his eyes narrow and his body goes tense. Dean takes a few steps towards him, but Castiel crosses the store to place himself behind the counter, a light flush rising on his cheeks.

"Cas I-"

"I must say, Winchester," Castiel says cutting Dean off, "your blatant disregard for my privacy is quite a turn on. Why can't all two-night-stands be as clingy as you?" He pushes a button on the computer screen in front of him and the cash register pops open. Pulling a stack of bills out he shuffles them through his hands, counting with lips moving silently.

Dean ignores the insult and comes to stand in front of Castiel. "I came to apologize," he says, nerves steeled. He's not usually the apologizing type – patching things over, sure. But outright saying 'I'm sorry?’ Not so much. "What I said last night was wrong, and I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. No one deserves the bad shit that happens to them."

Castiel doesn't respond, his eyes don't leave the money in his hands, and other than the soft rustle of worn dollar bills sliding against each other, the shop is silent.

Dean clears his throat and shifts his feet. "C'mon, Cas, say something," he finally requests.

"You said you came to apologize, Dean," Castiel mutters as he marks something on a piece of paper and pulls coins out of the drawer. "You've done that now so why you're still standing there is beyond me."

Dean runs a hand over his mouth and shrugs before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, "I dunno," he admits. "Just thought maybe you'd have something to say to me."

Castiel looks up from his work, blue eyes fixing on Dean with an angry determination, "You're wrong," he states, "I have nothing to say to you; now please get out."

Dean's shoulders slump, and Castiel looks away from him and back down at the till, like he's completely unaffected. Cas not saying anything is almost worse than the fight Dean had prepared himself for on the way over. He waits around for another beat then bows his head and leaves Rapture Records.

Dusk is curling in the air outside, sky streaked with purples, and bright oranges, but Dean's missing the whole thing, brain whirring as he approaches the Impala from the passenger's side. He isn't sure why he's so hell bent on making Castiel understand how sorry he is; he's only known the guy for going on three weeks now, but Dean feels like a fish on a barbed hook – more than just a little bit attached. Far too invested.

Dean opens the door and digs around in the glove box for the pack of Lucky Strikes he keeps buried underneath receipts and other useless shit where he hopes Sammy won't find them. When his hands close around the box, he pulls out a cigarette and fishes the lighter out of his back pocket, lighting up and closing the passenger side door. Resting against the Impala, Dean inhales a breath full of nicotine, scratching at his brow as he blows the smoke from between his lips. He's not actually waiting for Castiel, but it's a lucky coincidence he happens to still be around when Castiel finally steps out of the record shop.

With one look at Dean, Castiel shakes his head.

"You just said to get out," Dean points out, taking another drag of his cigarette, "you didn't say I had to leave."

Castiel sighs and approaches Dean, pulling the cigarette from between his fingers and bringing it to his lips.

They stand and stare at each other for a few brief moments before Castiel speaks, "Honestly, Dean. You’re reaching creepy-ex-boyfriend levels right about now, showing up at my apartment, the Feathers, and now coming to work when I’ve distinctly told you to leave me alone?”

Dean shifts nervously on his feet, never noticing until now how his past actions could be interpreted. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“What do you want?” The words sound harsh, but Castiel’s voice is soft.

"A chance." If Cas is asking, that means there still might be a chance to be had, right? "I know what I did was a dick move. And I get now how I could be seen as some kind of creepy stalker - which I’m not. But, for some reason it’s really fucking important to me that we don’t leave things like this."

Castiel’s eyes rove over Dean’s face, weary.

"C'mon, Cas, let me buy you a drink."

Castiel says nothing, so Dean prods at him again. "Just one drink.”

Castiel’s face draws up in contemplation before finally responding. "Fine. But, it's going to take more than one drink to earn my forgiveness. If it can be earned at all."

Dean offers Castiel a wide grin, "Let's get started then."

They make their way across the street to Shurley's and grab a couple of stools at the bar. The bartender, Damien, greets Castiel by name, and Castiel orders them a round of shots.

"So how many drinks does it take to earn your forgiveness?" Dean wonders, dragging a thumbnail across the glossed wooden bar top.

"As many as it takes to get me drunk enough to forget what an asshole you were."

"Fair enough, so we going to make a night of it, or what?"

Castiel furrows his brow and tilts his head, "What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno," Dean shrugs, "exchange of information maybe. I ask you a question; if it's something you don't want to answer, you drink."

"And what if I don't want to answer any of your questions?"

"Then you'll be forgiving me pretty damn fast," Dean answers simply. Castiel takes a minute to respond, mulling the words over in his head no doubt, but then he finally nods.

"Fine.”

"Okay."

The first round of shots come, and Dean offers Castiel the first jab.

“It's been said you withheld attending school so you could pay for Sam's education instead. Is that true?” Castiel wonders, eyes trained carefully on Dean's face.

Dean scoffs. “It's been said, huh?”

Cas nods, eyes firm.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, contemplating drinking. But if he wants to get to know Cas he's going to have to give a little, too.

"Watered down version? I was enrolled, but never ended up going.” It's really not that simple, nothing in Dean's life is that simple, but there are too many complicated feelings attached to the rest of the story. Feelings he's still working through even five years later.

“And the not watered down version?” Castiel asks, because he's a totally nosy asshole who has to know every goddamn thing about Dean.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, wondering how much he can say without really Getting Into It. He sighs and leans back on his stool.

“My dad was an alcoholic most my life. I spent a lot of my high school years cleaning up his messes, and making sure Sam had everything he needed. I ended up with a GED instead of a high school diploma because of it and kept on taking care of Dad even after that. When I was nineteen – almost twenty we moved in with my uncle Bobby, and things were still not good, but they were better. So I enrolled in some classes.” Dean bites back the bitterness, and guilt, and the emptiness that's never really left him. Maybe even since long before Dad.

“It was just a few credits. Enough to get me into school, but not too many to keep me away from dealing with all the other shit going on at the time. But then my dad died, and I got full custody of Sammy, and I've been working to provide for him ever since. It's more important that he goes.” The story leaves him feeling raw, that familiar thread of anger curling through him, but sharing it with Cas is- liberating. In some sort of way.

Cas’s eyes are soft at the edges now. "Why's that?"

Dean shakes his head, "Not how it works, sweetheart," he deters, "one question only per round."

“I'm sorry about your father,” Cas offers gently.

Dean nods, “He was an asshole, but he was my dad.”

They're quiet for a beat, a silence that means something different to both of them, and then Castiel is stating, “I believe it's your turn then.”

"What's with the heart tattoo?" Dean knows it's a long shot, but he gives it a try anyway. When Castiel picks up his shot glass and tips his head back to swallow the contents therein, Dean isn't the least bit surprised.

Castiel flags down the bartender and orders a few more rounds for the two of them and then turns to Dean.

"Why is it so important to you that I forgive you?"

There isn't a drink in front of him yet so he can't bail on the question – Cas, the sneaky bastard probably planned it that way – but Dean doesn't have a solid answer.

"I don't know," he finally admits, "I guess I just wanted you to know I'm not a complete ass."

"Ah," Castiel pulls his shots towards him as the bartender slides them across the bar top, "that is yet to be determined."

It's Dean's turn for a question. He wants to ask something that Castiel will answer, but what that is, he has no idea. Shots in the dark, really.

"What's the deal with your parents?" Dean settles on.

Castiel's hand hovers over a shot glass for a second or two before he looks up at Dean.

"My father is an attorney and my mother is an ophthalmologist," Castiel sighs. "They divorced when I was twelve. Michael moved away and only ever spoke to me when it was my birthday or a holiday, and Naomi kept me under her thumb like a fucking drill sergeant. I'm not on good terms with either of them."

"Sorry to hear that," Dean offers.

Castiel shakes his head, "Don't be, they were never really family to begin with."

At that moment Damien comes over. "You guys have to order food to go with all these drinks I'm making, you know that right?"

"I came to get drunk," Castiel declares.

"You always come to get drunk. That’s why you of all people should know," Damien counters, "you have to order food."

Castiel rolls his eyes, and Dean orders the first couple of appetizers he sees on the menu to satisfy the bartender and keep the drinks coming. When Damien leaves them, he turns his gaze to Castiel.

"It's your turn," he points out.

"Where's your mother?" Castiel asks.

Dean takes his first shot of the night.

~

After that, questions and booze flow freely between them; Castiel takes another shot when Dean asks what Castiel studied in school, and Dean adds another as well when asked the same question. By the time Dean has had three shots and Castiel has had five, Castiel offers Dean a broad grin.

"I think I'm starting to feel something," he states, "you definitely seem like less of an assbutt than you did."

Dean flags down Damien for more alcohol.

~

The bartender cuts them off with a sharp, "You're done. Get out of my bar," when Castiel gets giggly. The usual foreboding persona he wears has slipped from his presence and has been replaced with something looser, something more open and relaxed in a way Dean's never seen him before, not even when he was high.

Castiel leans in close to Dean, a lopsided grin on his face, and slides a hand up Dean's thigh stopping just before he hits Dean's groin. "Do you wanna come back to my place?" he asks hot and half whispered in Dean's ear. The words are slightly slurred, but Dean has absolutely no trouble deciphering what Castiel's suggesting.

Dean swallows hard and nods, grabbing Cas's stubbled chin and drawing him in for a kiss. Castiel goes easily.

"Hell yes I do," Dean replies, his voice coming out husky and low.

Cas slides off his stool and his eyes flash hot, filled with a disconnected sort of amusement. "Always so eager to get in my pants," he garbles mostly to himself.

Dean's stomach twists then, bubbles with a quick anger that pushes against the fogginess of the alcohol in his brain. "What the fuck, Cas?" he blurts. "You're the one who just-" he's cut off by Castiel's mouth finding his again. The rough slide of Cas's lips quickly easing the anger and replacing it with more fog, and Dean relaxes again.

"I didn't say I don't like it, Winchesser," Cas murmurs as he pulls away, "jussaid you were eager. What's the problem?"

"That's not why I did this," Dean protests stubbornly, his lips forming into a pout. He'll deny it later; Dean Winchester doesn't pout. But under the given circumstances, he's drunk, and the response it elicits from Castiel is rather pleasing.

Cas's lips are back at Dean's ear, and they're wrapping around the fleshy lobe, teeth fixing there as well and tugging before he responds, "Okay, Freckles, whatever you say."

Dean smiles a lazy, drunken smile then and hooks his fingers through Cas's belt loops and pulls him in close again. He offers Cas a fervid look, rubbing mindless circles into the heated skin just above the waistband of Castiel's jeans. Castiel hesitates only a second before he wraps his arms around Dean's neck, lazy and practiced as if he does it all the time, and draws their bodies closer together.

Cas leans in, bringing their mouths together in a messy open mouthed kiss that transitions from one kiss into two and then rolls on into three. But it doesn't stop at just three. Dean pushes his hands up the back of Castiel's sweater and presses into the small of his back driving the other man ever closer until he's flush up against Dean, his hips pressing into the vee of Dean's legs. Castiel's arms around his neck have gone from loose and easy to vice like, and he's kissing Dean with a fevered neediness that Dean chases greedily. Small gasps are escaping Cas on every other breath, and when he chokes off a low moan, Dean knows they have to get the hell out of that bar like yesterday.

At that moment Damien is standing across the bar top from them. "I said out, Edlund!" he bellows.

Castiel chuckles as he pulls away from Dean who tosses a wad of cash at the man behind the counter.

As soon as the bar's door falls shut behind them, Castiel starts towards his apartment, but Dean grabs his wrist and pulls him back. Castiel squawks in protest, but Dean just pushes him up against the warmed, red brick of the bar and starts mouthing at his jaw, one hand clasped to Castiel's waist, the other tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.

"I wasn't finished," Dean says lining his hips up with Castiel's and pressing into him.

Castiel hums in appreciation and hooks his arms around Dean's waist, tilting his head to the side to give Dean easier access to his jaw and neck, which Dean accepts enthusiastically.

"Like you like this, Cas," Dean murmurs clumsily against Cas's skin, his breath puffing out and mingling with Cas's. Castiel has started moaning again, clutching at Dean like he's his only lifeline, egging Dean to work that much harder on sucking marks into Castiel's skin.

"Like what?" Castiel asks, his words fumbled and careless.

"Not bein' a bossy little princess."

"Shuddup, Dean," it comes out in a cluttered pant. Castiel's eyes are clenched shut and his mouth is hanging agape, and Dean itches to just fuck him stupid right there against the brick wall. Instead he brushes his nose against Cas's and seals his mouth over the other man's. Castiel responds to the kiss with a deep, calculated roll of his hips, and Dean yanks away when he feels Castiel's arousal brushing against his own.

"So, your place?" Deans asks. Castiel simply nods, then pushes away from the brick, and leads Dean across the street towards his apartment.

Somehow they make it to Cas's front door – having stopped a few more times to fall into a lazy but heated make out session – and now Dean is waiting for Castiel to get the key in the lock so they can get inside and get naked.

Castiel's been standing crouched in front of the lock for a good few minutes now trying to put the key where it goes, but his coordination is all but gone, and he's pressing his forehead to the door and laughing more often than he's trying to put the key in the lock.

"C'mon, Cas, open the fucking door!" Dean huffs. His irritation is disregarded as Castiel laughs again and then stands up to face Dean.

"I don't know whayou want me t'do, Dean," he stammers, "the door handle keeps moving-ing."

Dean advances on Castiel, pushing him up against the door and tugging the keys out of Castiel's hand. Castiel grabs either side of Dean's face, and then they're kissing again, Castiel's hands roaming freely from Dean's jaw to his neck and shoulders and then to his chest. Dean plunges his tongue into Castiel's mouth while maneuvering the key into the lock and turning the handle, and they quite literally fall into the apartment, barley catching themselves on wobbly drunken legs before landing on their asses.

Dean yanks the keys out of the door and throws them onto the nearby shelving system before banging the door shut and sliding the lock into place. Castiel takes a turn at crowding Dean up against the closed door, but by now they're not so much kissing each other as they are panting into one another's mouths.

"Take your clothes off, Dean," Castiel growls against the side of Dean's mouth. Dean's hands fly obediently to his belt buckle, and he fumbles with it while Castiel positions himself so that one of Dean's legs is between his own. When he starts to rut, Dean stops wrestling with his clothing and wraps his hands around Castiel's biceps, both of them falling still and blinking bleary eyed at one another.

"Wait," Dean requests, "please."

Castiel  _tsks_ at Dean and steps away, hefting his sweater up over his head before tossing it to the ground. He's stepping out of his pants and briefs before Dean even fully registers what's going on, his eyes traveling down the endless expanse of skin now on display in front of him. Castiel reaches down and rubs the heel of his hand firmly against Dean's erection, and Dean's head falls back against the door with a quiet  _thunk_.

"Hurry up, Winchesser," Cas says, "we don' have all night."

Dean rolls his eyes; so much for Castiel not being bossy.

Castiel turns away from Dean and walks across the small apartment to where his bed rests. He bends over, his ass in live Technicolor view for Dean as he digs around in his nightstand, coming up with a matchbox in his hands.

Having already pulled his shirt off, Dean drops his pants and underwear to the ground, tripping out of them as he hurries across the room to get to Castiel.

"What're you doing?" Dean asks as he watches Castiel pull a joint and a lighter out of the matchbox.

"Need to smoke," Castiel answers as he lights up the joint, "don't want a fucking hangover."

He shuffles Dean backwards until his thighs are hitting the bed, and Dean climbs on and pulls Castiel with him, hoisting himself into the nest of pillows at the top of Cas's bed. Castiel follows, straddling Dean's hips and taking a drag of the joint, then leaning over Dean.

Dean reaches for the joint, but Castiel holds it just out of his reach, shaking his head. "No," he says, and Dean thinks that's it, but then is pleasantly surprised when Castiel takes another drag and seals his mouth over Dean's, the smoke transferring from Castiel's mouth to Dean's own. Dean inhales and only when Castiel pulls away does he blow the smoke out through a small O in his lips.

“You’re gorgeous,” Castiel murmurs, almost like he doesn’t think Dean can hear him, but Dean does hear him, and he flushes under the compliment.

Castiel takes a few more puffs before handing the rest to Dean. He settles himself between Dean's parted legs and kisses down his neck all hot and messy while Dean smokes the rest of the joint. Castiel sucks on a collarbone until the skin starts to blossom with color and then makes his way downward dropping kisses to his chest, sucking at a nipple, and nipping along Dean's ribs. Dean's breathing has grown erratic and his heart beats with anticipation as he watches Castiel make his way lower and lower. Castiel has never so much as fisted Dean's cock during sex, and suddenly a thick excitement curls in his belly at the possibility of Castiel going down on him.

Cas stops at the softer, less toned part of Dean below his belly button, and studies the slight swell. "Freckles," he says with a happy chuckle as if the freckled pudge is the most delightful thing he's ever experienced. Dean grumbles at him, but Castiel ignores it in turn for nuzzling at the soft, pliant skin there, seemingly unaffected by Dean's erection bumping against his throat.

After a beat Dean tangles his fingers in Castiel's hair and gently guides the other man lower until his breath is ghosting over Dean's erection. Castiel glances up at him through heavy lidded eyes, a sliver of blue peeking out across the bed. Dean puts the joint to his lips and takes another pull as he watches Castiel expectantly.

Castiel takes Dean in hand and in one fluid movement wraps his lips around Dean's length, swallowing him all the way down.

Unprepared for the tight tunnel of wet heat that now surrounds him, Dean chokes on the smoke in his mouth, his fingers tightening in Castiel's hair. "Fuck, Cas," he manages between one labored breath and the next.

Castiel looks up at him through dark lashes and hums around Dean's cock, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through Dean. When Castiel swallows around him, taking the few drops of pre-come with him, Dean nearly drops the joint somewhere in the folds of Castiel's sheets. It’s been such a long time since anyone’s done that for him that he _actually_ forgot how good it feels.

"Okay, okay!" he shouts, trying not to move too much. His head is spinning with pleasure, and it's almost too much to process. "I need-" he breathes hard and loosens his grip in Castiel's hair, "I need a minute."

Castiel slides off slowly, never letting up on the suction, and Dean flops back into the pillows, tears edging at his eyes, and an orgasm already building low in his belly. Only when Castiel pulls off with an absolutely filthy pop does Dean even dare open his eyes.

"You sonofabitch," he garbles, his chest rising and falling heavily.

Leaning across the bed, Cas grabs for the bottle of lube from a drawer on his night stand. He puts it in Dean's hand and then positions himself on the bed, ass in the air, elbows to the mattress, and waits.

Dean watches as Castiel presents himself, thoughts still sloshing around in his brain like water in a bathtub. He rolls himself over and puts his face level with Castiel's. He looks like he's getting tired, his eyes losing their carefree luster, and if Castiel crashing while he's this drunk is anything like the way he crashes after sex, Dean realizes he has mere minutes to get them both off before Cas is going to pass out on him.

He sits up and Castiel wiggles his rear end in the air, but Dean pushes him onto his side instead. "Not tonight, sweetheart," he says with a smirk as Castiel glares up at him. "Don't want you fallin' asleep on me half way through." He squirts some lube onto his hand and then fits himself right next to Cas, tangling their legs together and pushing their hips close enough he can take them both in hand. Castiel looks like he's about to put up a fight until his cock is pressed against Dean's in the firm, surety of Dean's fist. Instead of snarking back, he lets out a breathy sigh and closes his eyes, clasping either of Dean's shoulders in his hands.

Dean starts to pump up and down the length of them, bringing his other hand to Castiel's hip and gripping tight, closing his eyes when Castiel leans in and presses kisses to his mouth before licking along the seam of Dean's lips. Dean opens up to him and moves his tongue against Castiel's lazily.

Their mouths break apart long enough for them to catch their breath, and Castiel groans out Dean's name in a hushed sort of pleasure that brings Dean's building climax to the forefront of his senses. Quickly, the groan turns into a frenzied sort of chant and soon the room is filled with the needy litany of, " _Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean._ " It bounces off the walls and fills up all the empty spaces inside of Dean, and he tightens his grip around them, losing himself in the crying of his name.

The closer Cas grows to climax, the heavier his breathing is, and the tighter his grip on Dean's shoulders becomes. He's choked off the steady stream of Dean's name and is now suppressing whimpers that are coming out on every other breath. Dean can feel the other man thickening in his hand, knows Castiel is ready but for some reason, won't release.

"Dean," he pants, "you make me-" he stops, and Dean opens his eyes to look at the other man. Castiel's eyes are clenched shut and he looks desperate and overwhelmed. "Dean," he starts again, "I feel-" he gulps in a breath of air and then simply says, " _don't go_."

"Yeah, baby, I'm right here," Dean mutters against Castiel's lips. "I'm right here. Let go."

With those words, Castiel seizes against him, his body stiffening taut as a wire before Dean feels the hot spurt of Cas's come against his hand and stomach. He keeps Cas tight in his fist against his own dick and works him through his orgasm as Dean's own crests not long after, his release coming out in strips between them, dripping down onto the sheets. He closes his eyes and pumps himself a few more times before loosening his grip around them both.

Castiel is still breathing hard when the pleasure begins to leak from Dean's brain, and he peels his eyes open to find a clouded blue staring at him.

"Hey," Dean says, dropping a light kiss to Castiel's lips, "you okay?" They've only had sex a couple of times, but Castiel has never sounded that desperate before; it makes something feel off kilter inside Dean.

Castiel nods, moving to kiss Dean again, and then as sure as the sun rises in the East, his eyelids droop and he yawns deep and contended.

"Figures," Dean mutters. He helps Castiel maneuver himself off the top sheet they dirtied, swiping it across them both to clean up before dropping it into a heap on the ground and pulling Cas's comforter up over them. When Dean lays back down, Castiel squirms around in the bed until he's pressed right up against Dean and tucks his head beneath Dean's chin, resting a hand against Dean's chest.

Dean presses a kiss to Castiel's hair and drapes an arm over the other man's back before letting the pull of sleep drag him under.

 

**\---**

 

Castiel wakes up shivering. Sometime during the night, his comforter slipped and bunched up around his hips leaving his chest and shoulders feeling cold and stiff. There's a press of a headache behind his eyes, so Castiel keeps them shut and burrows in closer to the solid line of heat against his front. He pushes his forehead against a warm, smooth chest and wiggles until there's no space between him and the body next to him.

He feels the comforter being dragged up along his arm and settling around his shoulders again, and then there's a light brush of lips across his forehead. "Sorry, babe," a voice mutters above him.

His brain is still heavy with sleep and now a roil in his stomach is joining the headache, but through the fog, he recognizes that voice. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas, I'm here."

Something warm settles within Castiel at the thought of not being alone, and he tries to press himself closer, taking from Dean as much heat as he can. "I feel like shit," he whines, his words coming out thick, sloppy.

"Apparently we didn't smoke enough," Dean comments, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Castiel groans in response.

"Shhh," Dean murmurs, "just go back to sleep."

An arm winds around his waist, and Dean runs steady, calloused fingertips up and down Castiel's spine. Castiel lets out a contented sigh and is lulled back to sleep.

~

The next time Castiel awakes, he's alone in his bed, his comforter still tugged up around his shoulders and his face buried in one of his giant down pillows. His headache has been reduced to a dull throb, and his senses have cleared marginally since the last time he'd been awake. He realizes Dean must have left while he was still passed out, and while the bed feels cold and too big without him, Castiel is grateful he didn't have to sneak out of his own apartment again just to avoid talking to a one night... several night stand.

His gratitude is short lived though when the crisp smell of bacon hits his nose, and he registers the sizzle and pop of grease coming from across the room. He sits up and looks over to where Dean stands in the kitchen, moving bacon around in a pan and humming to himself absentmindedly. Of course, Dean would take advantage of Castiel's deep sleep and stay to make breakfast. And of course, he would do it with the least amount of clothes on as possible.

Dean's in nothing but his underwear, and Castiel watches the stretch and pull of Dean's muscles as he moves around the kitchen, reaching above him to turn the oven fan on, digging around in the fridge for who knows what, and opening and closing cupboards until he finds plates. It's the first time Castiel’s ever really taken the time to study Dean, and even though it's just the back of him, Castiel realizes just how beautiful Dean is. Sure, his hair is detestable and the eye make-up, nail polish and piercings are quite excessive, but underneath the facade, Dean is incredibly attractive. Inside and out, Castiel's learning.

But why is he still in Castiel's apartment? Making breakfast?

Castiel groans and buries his face in the pillow, attempting to cut out the fatty smell of grease and meat that's making his stomach twist in hunger, and the vision of Dean, all tanned and toned muscle, moving around in his kitchen. The sound draws Dean's gaze to him.

"Mornin' Mr. Comatose. You hungry?"

Castiel muffles another groan into the pillow.

"C'mon, I cut up all that fruit you had in your fridge. What's the deal with that, by the way? Don't tell me you're into all that Farmer's Market shit like Sam."

In that moment Castiel wonders what the hell he was thinking ever inviting Dean into his home again. It seemed to be a mantra of his, as of late, to do the exact opposite of what he promised himself he would no longer do.

"I made coffee," Dean offers, cutting through Castiel's thoughts, and it's that statement that pulls Castiel out of bed. He's still naked, but he pulls the comforter with him, wrapping it around his shoulders so that only his head sticks through and shuffling over to the breakfast bar where Dean has laid out two plates, a couple of forks, and the big bowl of fresh fruit he'd cut up. Castiel climbs onto the seat closest to the wall and watches warily as Dean brings the skillet of bacon over and flips a few pieces onto Castiel's plate.

"Friggin' turkey bacon," Dean mutters under his breath, "killin' me here."

Also in the pan are cheesy, scrambled eggs and Dean portions them out onto both plates before putting the skillet back and bringing over a carton of milk, and two mugs filled to the brim with steaming black coffee.

"You want sugar or anything?" he asks.

Castiel shakes his head, pulling the comforter closer around him. "Just milk."

Dean uncaps the milk. As he pours he grumbles, "I don't know if you know this or not, but almonds don't produce milk. So, I don't know what the fuck this is, but it definitely ain't milk. You should probably think about buying the real thing; it's cheaper."

Castiel pulls a face at Dean. "Who says I'm not lactose intolerant?"

"The cheese in your fridge does."

Castiel lets out a frustrated huff because who the hell does Dean think he is coming in and insulting not only Castiel's music, and his wardrobe, but now his food choices, too? "I'll have you know almond milk has more calcium than cow's milk, Dean," he bites out. "It's much healthier for you, and I prefer the taste of it over what you call 'real milk.'"

"Yeah well, I'll take your word for it."

When he's finished dishing everything up, Dean takes a seat beside Castiel. It's annoyingly endearing how Dean treats Castiel's apartment as his own, and Castiel is feeling torn between relaxing and keeping his guard up. This is the closest he's allowed someone to get to him in a very long time, and he's entirely at a loss for how to deal with the direction his relationship with Dean seems to be heading.

Dean wastes no time digging in. He spears a bite of the eggs and twists his fork to gather all the cheese that's oozing off the prongs in stringy pieces. Castiel pushes a hand outside the comforter and pulls a piece of bacon off his plate and nibbles at the corner while he watches Dean eat.

"How you feelin'?" Dean asks around a mouthful of eggs and bacon.

"Okay, I think I slept off most of my hangover."

Dean looks over at Castiel and swallows. "And, uh," he pauses for a moment, eyes scanning Castiel's face before continuing, "how you doin'? You doing okay?"

"I just told you I was, Dean," Castiel retorts, "I don't know what else you want me to say."

"That's not what I meant, Cas," Dean explains rubbing at the back of his neck. "You uh- what you said last night- I just wanted to make sure you're, you know," Dean says gesturing towards Cas. "Okay."

"I'm perfectly fine, Dean," Castiel keeps his voice cool and neutral. “I was drunk last night, if you'll recall. People say ridiculous things when they're drunk.” What he did or did not do the night before is a little muddled in his memory, but he's absolutely certain he doesn't want to rehash the details with Dean.

"Sure," Dean agrees, though his tone says anything but. He finishes off his eggs and drinks down half his coffee before picking up his last piece of bacon. He looks over at Cas as he puts it in his mouth. Castiel's still nibbling away at his first strip of bacon, continuously uneasy about having Dean in his apartment in this way. It's very domestic. Very intimate. Very something Castiel wants to avoid at all costs.

Dean sighs at him and shakes his head. "Quit eating like a damn baby bird," he snaps. “You're making me feel weird.”

Castiel glares but does not respond.

"You gonna eat your eggs?" Dean asks.

"Maybe."

"Because if you won't, I will. What do you want? You want some fruit? You had enough of it in the fridge to run your own produce section."

Dean reaches across the bar to grab the bowl of fruit and starts spooning it onto Castiel's plate.

"I crave fruit when I’m high. And I can do it myself, Dean," Castiel grumbles.

"It'll be tomorrow before you even finish that bacon. Just be quiet and eat."

As Cas pushes food around on his plate, Dean rinses his dishes in the sink and loads them in the empty dishwasher. He cleans up everything he used to cook with and Castiel makes his way through his breakfast, little by little. The eggs are seasoned with garlic and something else he can't place but they taste perfect, and they, along with the bacon and a good portion of the fruit, have disappeared from the plate by the time Dean turns around.

"I knew you were hungry, you fucker." Dean smirks when he sees the state of Castiel's plate.

Castiel shrugs, his comforter slipping down one shoulder, and reaches for his coffee. Dean looks at the clock on the microwave and swears under his breath.

"I'm supposed to meet Sam in half an hour." He wanders across the apartment, pulling on his clothes that are scattered from the front door to beside the bed.

"Okay," Castiel responds evenly, keeping his back to Dean. He stabs a piece of cantaloupe with his fork and takes a bite, chewing slowly and pointedly not turning around to watch Dean redress. As he swallows, warm hands settle around his upper arms and then the press of lips can be felt against his exposed shoulder. Castiel goes still and practically holds his breath as Dean kisses from his shoulder to his neck and then noses for a moment or two at the sensitive skin behind Castiel's ear.  His heart rate has picked up and is now pounding out a frantic rhythm inside his chest that seems to beat,  _D-dean_ ,  _D-dean_ ,  _D-dean_ ,  _D-dean_ against his ribs.

"I'm not leaving you; I'll just see you later, okay?" Dean murmurs quietly against Castiel's skin, his hand sliding inside the confines of the comforter and rubbing in slow, gentle circles on Castiel's chest. "Take care of yourself."

Castiel nods slowly, straining not to turn his head and take Dean's lips with his own, wondering what Dean tastes like after coffee and fruit in the morning and without the warm buzz of alcohol streaming through Castiel's veins.

Dean drops a kiss to his temple. "See ya, Cas."

Castiel waits until Dean is halfway across the apartment before he turns to watch him leave. Dean doesn't see him turn around, and Castiel prefers it that way. When the door shuts, Castiel lets out a breath and crosses the apartment to lock the door.

He trips over Meg on the way to the bathroom, and by the time he steps underneath the warm spray of the shower head, he feels clumsy and unsteady on his feet. Arousal pumps through his system at the lingering thought of Dean, and before he realizes it, Castiel has one fist around his hardening cock and an arm thrown out against the wall to steady himself. As he begins to stroke himself, the thought of heavily lined green eyes and a freckle spattered body sticks to the forefront of his brain; in his mind black lacquered nails and calloused fingers replace his own around himself and he loses himself in the up-down glide along his shaft.

Minutes later he spills all over his hand, a smirking face playing behind his eyelids, a nose ring glinting in the dull lighting, and Castiel realizes what he's done. He allows his forehead to fall against the arm resting against the wall and takes several deep breaths as the steady stream of warm water sluices over his body. When the fog of orgasm clears from his brain, Castiel pounds a fist against the wall.

"Dammit," he mutters darkly, " _dammit_.”


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel is used to being anxious. He's used to counting things and arranging and rearranging until something looks right. He's used to the same thought running through his mind like a broken record, a skipped CD, the same line of a song on repeat until he feels like he's going to scream.

It's not pleasant, but it's familiar to him. And he knows – mostly – how to deal with it (or not deal with it).

But the anxiety Dean brings him is an entirely new animal. One he has yet to learn how to cope with. There are days he wakes up jittery, so full of want, yearning to fill the space Dean seems to have carved for himself in Castiel's life, a space no amount of alcohol, or cigarettes, or weed could ever make full. A space only Dean himself could occupy.

And then there are days Dean is there, and Castiel feels broken open, like Dean can see all his shattered parts, parts of himself he's only ever shared with one other person before. And sometimes Dean being able to see him is better than the other demons haunting him, but other times Dean's just one more person to worry about. One more way for his body and mind to completely exhaust themselves  _trying_.

Castiel doesn't know how to deal with that.

And that's why Ruby finds him on all fours, head in a shelving display as he scrubs away at something that's dusted and polished regularly. But Castiel can see the spots, he can see the dirt, and the grime. It's there, and no one can take care of it like he can. So, he scrubs.

Ruby nudges at his thigh with a boot clad foot, and when he looks up at her, she's got her arms crossed over her chest and an accusatory expression on her face.

“What are you doing?”

"Cleaning," Castiel responds easily. Truthfully, he's been scrubbing the store from top to bottom for the past couple of hours.

"I can see that," Ruby responds. "Why?"

Castiel stands, his gloved hands clutching his rag like a lifeline as he offers her a shrug. He picks up the bucket of water he's been toting around the store with him, the water long since turning murky and gray, and carries it to the bathroom.

"You know, you used to use your camera to sort out your shit," Ruby points out as he dumps the dirty water into the toilet and refills the bucket. Castiel stiffens marginally, but he leaves the bathroom quietly and approaches another shelf, pulling things off it so he can scrub it, too.

"I used to do a lot of things," he states.

"You did," Ruby agrees, "and now you... drink." She finishes her statement with an air of disgust.

Castiel scrubs harder. Who the hell is Ruby to ride in on her high horse and judge him for how he deals with his life? Fuck her. “I've always drank to manage my compulsions,” he points out coolly.

“Not when-”

"I'm not sure what point it is you're trying to make," Castiel edges, ignoring his cousin's gaze, "but whatever it is, I'm sure it has little to no relevance to my current situation."

"What  _is_ your current situation, Cas?"

"Busy," Castiel’s voice goes razor sharp. He waits for her to leave, but she never does. He can feel her gaze on him, her unspoken questions dragging like an icy touch against his spine.

He drops his rag into the bucket of water, quirking an eyebrow at her. “What?”

"What do you mean, 'what?’"

"You have something to say," Castiel points out, "say it."

"I'm just concerned," Ruby finally responds.

Castiel waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn't, he asks, "That's what you wanted to say?"

Ruby shakes her head at him, a frustrated hiss escaping her lips. "It's like I don't even know who you are anymore," she accuses, "you've been here almost a year, and you're still fucking moping. Good lord, Castiel, let it  _go_. Move the fuck on."

Castiel narrows his eyes at her, and the store fills with a heavy silence. Until Ruby showed up, Castiel had been content to fret over Dean rather than his normal issues, but now that she's brought them back to the surface, his heart is pounding, an angry anxiety pulsing in his veins. "If you're finished," he says flatly.

Ruby sighs, deflating. "Listen, Cas, I know it's hard, but-"

"Do you, Ruby?" Castiel snarls at her, his calm dissipating, "Because if you did, if you really had  _any_ idea whatsoever, you would not be standing there feeding me some Dr. Phil bullshit."

Ruby opens her mouth to speak, but Castiel barrels on. "I can't sleep, Ruby," he huffs out, unable to stop the words that are now tumbling out of his mouth. Nothing he's saying is anything he ever intended to admit to anyone, but now that he's started he can't stop. "Everything I do,  _everything_ , reminds me that I'm alone. I have tried to ‘move on.’ I have done everything I know how to ‘let it go,’ but so far about the only thing that works is drinking myself into oblivion. And even that is losing its fulfillment. So please. If you have some brilliant idea on how to make me feel like more than a fucking  _shell_ , I would  _love_ to hear it."

Ruby's brown eyes have melted from snappish to something that makes Castiel's stomach churn with dread. He knows that look – sympathy – and he wants nothing to do with it.

"You could always talk to someone," she offers quietly, expression unsure.

Castiel snickers at her. "You and I have very different ideas of what brilliant means." He waits for Ruby to make her counter remark, but she never does. Her eyes scan his face as she silently fumes and then she turns on her heel and stalks away.

By the time Castiel's shift has ended, he's practically gasping for breath, everything feeling too small around him, every nerve ending in his body oversensitive. He ducks out of the store with raw fingers and Ruby's words on repeat in his brain. Dean's face is there, too, irritatingly beautiful and quiet. He's desperate for a calm to come over him, his body going into overdrive, and when nothing but more of the same happens, his recklessness takes over.

At his apartment he takes one look around the small, empty space and steps back out into the hallway, closing the door resolutely behind him.

While the things Ruby drudged up are impossible to erase, Castiel is sure of one thing: Dean Winchester is about to become one less problem for him.

He picks a bar on the opposite side of town from his apartment, drawn to the opportunity of spending the night with someone he's never laid eyes on in his life, and ignores the fact that he's only about ten minutes away from Dean's neighborhood.

It's more of a dive than what he's used to, rough and faltering around the edges, but no one looks familiar and it's not as busy as he anticipated, so Castiel considers it acceptable.

Taking a seat at the bar, Castiel's fists are clenched, his nails leaving behind crescent indents when he finally eases his fingers to lay flat on the bar top. Next to him there's a man who looks far too clean cut – with his trendy haircut, and his wool vest and tie – to be in an establishment such as this, and Castiel tries to remember the last time he'd considered being with someone like him.

But he can't. Everyone before Dean has become a faded silhouette.

As he settles into his seat, the man turns to him, flashing a smile. Castiel doesn't feel like smiling back but figures the man's probably the type of person that appreciates cordiality, and so he quirks the corner of his mouth at him.

"Long day?" the man asks, his fingers toying with the neck of his beer bottle, the weight of his gaze heavy on Castiel's face.

Castiel wants to roll his eyes at the small talk, but then he is here with a purpose, so he gives in to playing human and nods. "Extremely."

"Me too," the man sympathizes.

Castiel sighs inwardly. It's been so long since he's spoken with anyone who wasn't a customer or family member that he's forgotten how to keep up a steady conversation. Luckily for him, the man doesn't seem to mind.

"This is going to sound terribly cliché of me, and I apologize in advance, but you aren't from around here are you?" The question is accompanied by an obvious display of surveying Castiel's appearance.

"How could you tell?"

The man shrugs taking a pull from his beer before answering. "Most of the people here are regulars," he explains, "don't see a lot of new faces at Marv's very often. I deduced from what I know." He offers Castiel another smile, coyer this time, and Castiel nods at him.

"Well done."

"So, what is it that brings you here?" the man wonders. His finger circles the rim of his beer bottle, and Castiel's eyes fixate on the motion for a beat before flicking back to his face. The man's gaze flickers with interest, the easy smile he offers Cas with so much more intent behind it than camaraderie.

And this could be it. This could be the person who sends his and Dean's relationship tail-spinning for decimation. “It wasn't so much the bringing that was the purpose,” Castiel says, chancing a glance at the other man through his lashes; because this isn't his game, but he knows exactly how to play it. “It was more the leaving part I was interested in.”

The man leans in, his hand settling high on Cas's thigh, mouth right against Castiel's ear. “I was just about to leave myself,” he purrs.

But Castiel barely processes the words. Because he may have come to fuck someone else, someone who isn't Dean Winchester, and move on with his life, but all he sees when he looks at the other man is  _not Dean_. And suddenly everything about him is wrong. From his graying beard, to the sharp cologne he's wearing, and his hands on Castiel feel _wrong_.

When Castiel's body goes tense the man pulls away. “Something wrong, angel?”

“I- I have to go.” Castiel feels like maybe he should apologize first and perhaps he would if there was anything on his brain other than  _Fuck you, Dean Fucking Winchester! Fuck fucking you_ , but there isn't so he doesn't.

He leaves the bar in an angry huff and hails a cab for the nearest liquor store, grabbing whatever bottle of cheap whiskey he finds first. He wanders aimlessly for a few blocks until he comes to a park and then takes up residency at the base of a large tree, settling into the grass with his back pressed against the rough bark of the trunk.

It's early evening now, about the time most people are heading home from work or sitting down to dinner with their families, which leaves the park mostly vacant. Grateful for the solitude, Castiel rests his head against the tree, pulls the bottle from the bag, spins the cap off, and drinks.

The first swallow burns going down, and Castiel winces against it but takes another swig almost immediately after, craving the warmth in his belly and the fogginess in his brain.

He tries to drink Dean right out of his head, his expressive green eyes and ridiculously colored hair, the way his warm, calloused fingertips feel gliding over Castiel's skin, but by the time he's drank far too much, Dean Winchester isn't any less prominent in his thoughts.

Dusk is falling around him now, a thick curtain of purples and oranges framing the clouds in the sky, and Castiel is drunk enough to conclude that the only way to get Dean Winchester completely out of his system – because trying to sleep with someone else obviously wasn't the solution – is to see him one last time.

Standing on wobbly legs, Castiel chuckles at himself, waiting for his body to adjust to being upright before he sets out in the direction he thinks Dean's house to be.

It takes him awhile to walk – a few wrong turns, and a stop here or there to steady himself – but when he sees Dean's beloved car parked in the driveway of a house only semi-familiar to him, he smirks, proud he was able to find the way even in his drunken state.

He puts all his weight against the Winchester's door jamb before pressing a finger against the doorbell. When he doesn't hear anything, he presses it again, and then again, and again until the front door is flying open and Dean is standing on the other side, a look of murderous rage on his face, counteracted only by the bright blue of his hair.

As soon as he sees Castiel, his shoulders relax.

"Cas?"

Castiel smiles at the other man, or at least he tries to, the corners of his mouth tugging up into what he hopes is an acceptable pass for a smile and leans even more heavily on the door frame.

"You're an asshole," he replies in greeting, the vibrant green of Dean's eyes reconfirming why he's at Dean's door in the first place.

Dean looks around outside, brows pulled down in confusion. "What, uh-" he stops to scratch at the back of his neck and then continues, "what are you doing here?"

His eyes travel down to the bottle Castiel's got his fingers curled around, and Castiel looks down at it himself. When he looks back up at Dean, he feels like punching him. Or kissing him. Or both.

"You've ruined me," Castiel finally states, raising the hand that's holding the bottle and pointing a finger at Dean. "I tried, Dean, I tried to have someone else. But he wasn't you and you-" he watches the muddiness deepen on Dean's face, but continues on, "you've ruined me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asks.

Castiel heaves an irritated sigh. "I'm here to fuck you, Dean," he states plainly before taking a quick pull from his whiskey, "need to get you out of my system so I can stop thinking about you. I don't want to think about you anymore."

He sees something cross Dean's features, something he can't quite resolve, and then Dean is opening the door wider. "Why don't you come in and we'll talk, huh?" he offers, but Castiel shakes his head.

"Don't invite me in, Winchester, unless you plan on having sex with me. That's the only reason I'm here."

Dean pauses, his eyes locked on Castiel's own, and Castiel can see the wheels turning in Dean's head before he finally sticks a hand outside, wraps his fingers around Castiel's wrist and pulls him into the house.

When the door is closed behind them, Castiel expects to be crowded up against it and kissed good and filthy, but instead Dean cups a hand on Castiel's hip and presses their lips together gently before turning and leading the way down the hall. It's an intimate gesture, and it leaves Castiel's head spinning.

In Dean's bedroom Castiel closes the door and pulls Dean in by his arms, closing his mouth over Dean's, and once his lips are finally on Dean's again, a wave of relief crashes over him, calming his mind and settling his nerves like no amount of alcohol or smoking ever has.

Dean's hands grapple for the bottle of whiskey as they kiss, and Castiel allows it to be tugged out of his hands and dropped into the trash can that sits by Dean's bedroom door, the contents sloshing around before settling. Castiel's hands rise to cup either side of Dean's face, and he tilts his head just so, deepening the kiss.

"You really just came for sex?" Dean asks as Castiel kisses at the corner of Dean's mouth and along his cheekbone.

"Why else would I have come?" Castiel asks, pulling away to study Dean's face. Castiel's eyes are a bit unfocused, but he doesn't miss the flicker of something that looks like hurt cross Dean's gaze before disappearing, replaced by something more neutral.

Dean shrugs, and Castiel moves back in to kiss him again, tugging at the hem of the other man's t-shirt. "Off," Castiel pants into Dean's mouth, "now."

Dean tugs at Castiel's bottom lip with his teeth, pulling on it gently before smirking, "You first."

Castiel rolls his eyes, then pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground. Dean closes in on him, pressing him back against the door, mouthing at his neck, and Castiel finds Dean's hips with his hands and pulls the other man's pelvis flush with his own, grinding against him as Dean sucks dark marks into his skin.

"Dean," Castiel says after a moment.

"Mmmm?"

"This is the part where you remove your clothing as well."

"I was waiting for you to do it for me," Dean states with a lopsided grin. Castiel squints at the other man, cocking his head to one side, but Dean just stares right back at him, his green eyes with a certain smugness about them.

"Fine," Castiel says, his eyes still narrowed, and he presses his lips to Dean's and fumbles with the other man's belt as he pushes Dean across the room and to his bed. When Dean's calves hit the mattress, his pants are around his knees and Castiel is attempting to tug his shirt over his head, but somewhere along the way Dean's arms have become tangled in the fabric.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean grates out as he gets himself out of the shirt.

"I'm drunk," Castiel states in explanation.                                                   

Dean shakes his head. "You're always drunk," he mutters back.

Castiel shrugs, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them on top of the ever-growing pile of clothing in the middle of Dean's floor. He pushes at the waistband of Dean's underwear, relieved when they come off more easily than the shirt had, and then Dean is spinning them and pushing Castiel down onto the bed and straddling his hips.

"How do you want me?" Dean asks, his voice husky as he leans down to kiss Castiel again. Cas reaches up, pushing his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck, and kisses back greedily, chasing the warmth of Dean's mouth.

"I want to be inside of you," he breathes between kisses, because he never has before, and maybe that's why he can't shake Dean. Maybe.

Dean nods and climbs off Castiel, returning seconds later with a bottle of lube. He hesitates briefly before handing it over to Castiel and climbing onto the bed next to him. Castiel maneuvers Dean into a better position for them both, pressing him down into the pillows, and then settles himself between Dean's legs.

Castiel mouths at the tattoo on Dean's chest, kissing along the inky black chain and laving at the dog tags that rest on Dean's sternum. "Say something," Castiel requests as he swipes his tongue over a nipple and kisses his way down Dean's torso. "I need to hear your voice." And he must be more drunk than he realized because he had no intention of saying that out loud. But Dean has been relatively quiet since Castiel arrived, and the need to hear his voice, steady and rough, caressing his ears like a physical touch, is growing insurmountably in Castiel's chest.

Dean is quiet for a beat more before he begins to speak.

"I got the tattoo of my dad's dog tags after he died. He was a Marine. Second Battalion, First Marines, Echo Company. We didn't always get along; he ran his household a lot like he ran his platoon, but he was my dad."

Castiel nods, "And this?" He runs his fingers softly over the lines of script on Dean's bicep.

"Lyrics to  _Hey Jude_ ," Dean explains, "my mom used to sing it to me when I was a kid."

"The guns?" Castiel wonders, nosing along the crossed barrels of the pair of guns Dean has inked just above his pelvis. He pops open the cap of the lube Dean gave him and slicks up his fingers.

"One on the right is called the Colt. It's a Texas Paterson 1836," Castiel has no idea what the hell that even means, "and the one on the left is a Colt 1911 A1 .45 Caliber." His breathing is growing more ragged the lower Castiel's mouth gets, and he's got a hand thrown over his eyes, the other reaching down and sliding fingers into Castiel's hair. "My dad used to tell Sam and me these stories before bed about a couple of brothers who hunted Supernatural type shit, and those were the guns they used. The stories- ah, fuck," he pants as Castiel rolls Dean's balls in the palm of his hand, "the stories stuck with me all growing up - some of the better memories I have of my dad."

"Mmmmm," Castiel hums in acknowledgment as he noses along the crease of Dean's leg and hip. He circles a finger around Dean's entrance, a trail of lube coating Dean's skin, before sinking his index finger into Dean's heat.

"Fuck," Dean chokes again.

"You're tight, Dean," Castiel comments as he moves his finger in and out.

"Been awhile," Dean admits.

The room falls mostly silent as Castiel works Dean open, Dean's quiet moans enough to satisfy Castiel's need to hear the other man, and soon enough he's slicking himself up and pressing the head of his arousal against Dean and pushing in slowly.

Dean lets out a shallow breath once Castiel is fully inside of him, and Castiel leans over him, peering down into his eyes, attempting to decipher what he sees there. Although his brain is far too clouded with arousal and alcohol to determine much of anything, the way Dean stares back, open and almost willingly vulnerable, makes Castiel wonder briefly if doing this really will sate his hunger for Dean Winchester or if it will only further his intrigue.

When he begins to move, Dean's eyes fluttering closed, his mouth falling open in a silent cry, Castiel loses all resolve and begins to fuck Dean in earnest.

Dean is tight around him, his thighs trembling against Castiel's sides as Castiel thrusts into him, and he cries out when Cas brushes along his prostate on a particularly deep upstroke. Castiel smirks down at him and bends to press a kiss to his lips.

"You feel so good, Dean," he mutters against Dean's mouth. “Exactly what I needed.”

Dean grunts in response and wraps his legs around Castiel's waist, drawing him deeper, moaning his approval, a choked, "Right there, baby," falling from his lips.

Castiel isn't even close to climaxing when he takes Dean in hand and begins to jack him in time to his own thrusts. After a few strokes Dean wraps a hand around Castiel's own and squeezes, tightening Castiel's grip on his cock.

"Just like that," he murmurs, his hand gliding in motion with Castiel's.

Dean comes first, his release spilling out over their fists, and even after Castiel lets go, Dean gives himself a few more tugs before letting his hands fall to the wayside. He's breathing heavy, his chest heaving, and he groans when Castiel hits his prostate again.

Castiel gives him time to unwind before he begins to stroke him, willing Dean to get hard again, even pausing in his thrusts to bend down and suck at the head in a few long pulls.

Dean hisses at the contact to his oversensitive dick but pushes into the touch, his eyes clenched shut against the pleasure pain. "Fuck, Cas," he mutters.

Castiel continues his relentless thrusting, ignoring the burn in his muscles and the wavering in his endurance, and doesn't stop at Dean's cock until it's hard once more, leaking a bead of pre-come at the tip. It took some coaxing, but he smiles down at Dean with a proud satisfaction when the other man begins to writhe underneath him again.

"Fucker," Dean grumbles. Castiel squeezes him at the base in response, and Dean's eyes flutter closed, his teeth sliding to bite his bottom lip.

As he works Dean to climax a second time, he catalogs how beautiful Dean looks beneath him, all blissed out and oversensitive, yet still desperate for Castiel's touch. It sends something warm shooting through Castiel, something unfamiliar but encompassing, and he leans down to seal his mouth over Dean's.

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel's back, and Cas nearly objects, ready to point out it will agitate his rhythm, but before the words are even out, Dean is flipping them over and straddling Castiel's waist, Castiel slipping out of Dean only marginally.

"Looked like you were getting tired," Dean smirks. Castiel stares up at him, a daze swimming around in his brain, but has nothing to say when Dean begins to fuck himself on Castiel's arousal.

Dean has more power in his muscles since Castiel's been at it for longer than intended and can get Cas deeper, push harder, than Castiel had been as he slowly wore himself down.

Castiel is aching for release. He reaches up, taking Dean in hand once more, and makes a tight fist around him, just like Dean had showed him, and then he's stroking Dean as well as he can manage.

Dean comes a second time, leaning over Castiel to kiss him, before Castiel is coming inside of him for the first time that night, a choked cry escaping Castiel as it hits him full force.

He breathes against Dean's mouth as he rides out his orgasm, Dean remaining draped over the top of him.

"Dean," Castiel sighs pressing a kiss against Dean's mouth. Dean's hands come up to cup either side of Castiel's face, and they kiss, long and languid before Dean gingerly lets Castiel slide out of him.

Slowly, Castiel works himself into a sitting position and sits on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, waiting to get his bearings about him. When he goes to stand, he's stopped by warm fingers curling around his wrist. He looks over his shoulder to find Dean's eyes boring into him.

"You’re not just gonna leave now, are you?" Dean’s tone is quiet, almost shy.

And that was the plan. He came for one last round of sex before swearing off this man completely; that does not entail staying the night. But Dean looks so soft, pliant from a good fucking, and warm lying there on his sheets, a light sheen of sweat cooling on his body.

Castiel studies the spattering of freckles that dances across the bridge of Dean’s nose and the lighter clusters on his chest and shoulders before allowing himself to admit that he  _wants_ to stay, wants Dean to want him to stay.

He shakes his head, admits, "I- don’t want to."

Dean offers him a small smile, "Then stay." Castiel isn't sure what the hell just happened, but he knows it definitely was not part of the plan.

Dean leaves the room for a beat returning with a wet washcloth in hand. "I'd say let's take a shower," he states, pushing Castiel back onto the mattress and running the warm washcloth over his skin, "but I don't think I can stand up for longer than about 45 seconds at this point."

Castiel's eyes fall closed as Dean cleans him off, pressing kisses into his skin in a trail behind the washcloth, and Castiel settles himself on the inside of the bed.

The mattress dips next to him, and then Dean is there, warm and solid beside him, pressing himself against Castiel's chest and dropping a kiss to his throat. "You okay?" Dean asks, so careful, so gentle.

Castiel isn't sure what to say, his brain already slipping into sleep and too much alcohol still buzzing through his veins, so he kisses Dean's forehead in response and pulls the other man closer, hoping Dean will understand. He isn't okay. But at least while he's with Dean, he can pretend to be.

~

Castiel is pulled from his comfortable cocoon of sleep with the urge to vomit. He lies still for a few moments, hoping it will pass, and when it doesn't, he extracts himself from Dean's arms and stumbles to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his stomach is emptying itself of all the alcohol he'd consumed the evening before.

Cold sweat gathers on his forehead, and when he's finished, he lets out a low groan, resting his weight against the wall next to him and closing his eyes.

Minutes later the door swings open, and the light flicks on. Castiel squints against it, stomping down the urge to vomit again.

"Cas?"

"Dean, the light," Castiel croaks in response.

The bathroom goes dark again, and Dean disappears without a word, returning several minutes later and crouching next to Castiel. He presses a cool glass into Cas's hand, his other coming to rest warm and sure on his back.

"Drink," Dean instructs when Castiel does nothing but hold onto the glass.

Castiel breathes through another wave of nausea and then rises the glass to his lips, taking a few swallows of the water. It's soothing going down his throat, and if he weren't so tired, he'd drink more. As it ishe lowers the glass again and lets his head fall back against the wall.

"All of it," Dean prods, "slowly."

Castiel wants to open his eyes and tell Dean Winchester just what he thinks of his  _order_ , but he's so heavy, so weak, so  _thirsty_ that he simply obeys.

When the water is gone, Dean helps him stand and pushes a small cup of mouthwash into his hand, guiding him to the sink.

"Call me a cab," Castiel says, tipping his head back and letting the liquid fill his mouth. He should have left the night before like he had planned to, yet here he is, retching in Dean's bathroom, letting Dean take care of him. As always.

"You're not going anywhere like this, sweetheart," Dean hands him a pair of pajama bottoms and an old, worn band t-shirt. "I'll take you home when I know for sure you won't puke in my car."

"I'm not going to puke in your car," Castiel counters, but he takes the clothing anyway and allows Dean to help him into the folds of the soft fabric before ushering him out of the bathroom and back into Dean's room.

Dean shuts the door behind them. "You want some toast or something?"

Castiel sighs heavily, climbing onto the bed. "Can you please stop talking?" He settles himself back in the spot he'd been occupying and lets his eyes fall closed, "Too many words."

"I'll take that as a 'no.’" Dean grumbles shuffling his way next to Castiel. "You gunna puke again?" he asks, pulling Castiel against his side.

Castiel shakes his head marginally, the movement sending a shock of pain between his temples, and relaxes when he feels the gentle pull of fingers gliding through his hair, scratching at his scalp ever so softly.

It feels good, calming, soothing, and Castiel is back asleep almost instantly.

~

He's less disoriented when he awakes the second time. His stomach has settled exceptionally, and he's alone in Dean's bed, burritoed in all the blankets. It's warm and everything smells like Dean, and he has half a mind to just close his eyes and sleep some more, but he's stubborn if he's anything, so Castiel sits up, slowly, and waits for the pounding in his head to calm.

"Figured you'd be up soon."

Castiel looks up and towards Dean's voice and finds the other man standing in the doorway.

"You hungry?" Dean hefts a thumb over his shoulder, "I made some toast."

Castiel blinks at him, trying to decide if he could stomach food at this point or not and finds himself following Dean when he sets off down the hall.

Walking proves problematic, but Castiel manages to make it to the kitchen before collapsing into a chair. Dean sets a plate of toast down in front of him along with another glass of water and leaves Castiel alone, bustling about the kitchen while Castiel nibbles at the toast and sips at the water.

After a handful of minutes, Dean sits in the chair next to Castiel, reaching for a piece of Castiel's toast. He takes a small bite then puts it back.

“We need to talk about this?” Dean wonders, eyes unassuming on Castiel's face.

Castiel shakes his head. A mistake. “Why are you doing this, Dean?" He raises his gaze to lock on Dean's, eyes searching for an explanation. If someone had come to his house drunker than drunk and running their mouth about how they never wanted to think about them again, Castiel would have kicked them to the curb without a second thought.

Dean shrugs before replying simply, "I don't know, Cas, I kinda like ya."

"I haven't given you a reason to like me," Castiel points out, taking another bite of his toast.

Dean smiles at him, "Life's funny, aint it?" He stands from the table and moves to the fridge. "Finish your toast," he says over his shoulder, "I have to go pick up Sam in a few hours; I'll take you home then, capiche?"

"Yeah, I capiche," Castiel grumbles at the table top.

Dean kisses the top of Castiel's head as he passes by before disappearing around the corner.

When Castiel has finished his toast and water, he stands from the table and shuffles over to the couch, laying himself out on the sun warmed cushions and reaching for the television remote that sits on the armrest above his head. As he flicks the TV on and begins surfing through channels, Dean reappears in the room.

"Make yourself at home, Cas," he mutters, situating himself at one end of the couch.

"You're holding me prisoner," Castiel points out, moving to lay his head on Dean's lap and stopping on an episode of  _The Joy of Painting_. "Figured I'd make the most of it."

"Prisoners don't get TV privileges," Dean states tugging the remote out of Castiel's hand. He begins to comb his fingers through Castiel's hair with the other, and Castiel instantly relaxes into the touch. He lets out a breathy sigh, his eyelids fluttering closed, and Dean chuckles above him.

"You gonna go back to sleep, sweetheart?"

Castiel answers with a quiet, "Mmmm," and then everything goes dark.

 

**\---**

 

"So, this is it?" Dean had driven Castiel across town in mostly silence, but now that they're idling in front of Cas's apartment and his hand is poised over the door handle, Dean has to ask.

Castiel lifts his gaze to meet with Dean's, an eyebrow cocked in question.

"Last night you said you wanted to get me out of your system," Dean explains. "And you've done that now, so this is goodbye, right?"

The words sting just as much now as they had coming out of Cas's mouth the night before, and Dean questions himself, yet again, for allowing Castiel into his house last night in the first place.

"I don't really know what this is," Castiel admits. His eyes remain on Dean's as he says it, and Dean's settled by the honesty he sees in them.

"So, I'll see you around then?" He hates how goddamn hopeful he sounds, but what he'd said earlier was true. He does like Cas. A lot.

Castiel nods, "Something like that."

It's not an answer, technically, but Dean doesn't know what he'd rather hear otherwise. Whatever  _is_ going on between him and Castiel is complicated, and he knows he can't expect Castiel to have it figured out any more than Dean does.

"Okay then," Dean finally says, "see you around, Cas."

"Thank you for the ride, Dean," Castiel says as he opens the door. He pauses before stepping out, turning back to look at Dean and muttering, "and everything else," and then he's climbing out of the Impala and closing the door behind him.

Dean watches Castiel make his way inside his building - still clad in the pajamas Dean had wrangled him into the night before - and then pulls up in front of Grace Cafe where he'd arranged to pick Sam up. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel while he waits and tries not to think too much about how confusing the past 24 hours have been.

The squeak of the passenger side door draws Dean out of his thoughts, and he looks over to find his brother folding himself into the front seat of the Impala and tossing his book bag to the floor.

"Was that Cas getting out of your car just now?" Sam greets, pulling his seat belt across his chest and clicking it into place.

Dean's brain grinds to a halt, and he panics for a split second before asking with an air of nonchalance, "You spying on me Sammy boy?"

"It's not spying if you're in my direct line of sight, Dean," Sam points out, "and why would I need to spy on you? Do you have something to hide?"

Dean shifts in his seat, wincing as a reminder of Castiel shoots through his ass, and grips the steering wheel tighter. Sam had arrived home late the night before and left early that morning. It had been a coincidental avoidance that Dean couldn't have planned better himself, and now one ill-timed drop off had Sam asking questions.

"What you're doing right now is called pleading the fifth," Sam points out, and Dean doesn't even have to look at his brother to know he's wearing that shit-eating grin of his, the one he sports when he thinks he's pretty smart.

Dean rolls through a yellow light. "You're not a lawyer yet, Sam."

"Speaking of law school," Sam says, his voice going quiet. "Tomorrow starts my last year of school."

"I know, big day. You ready? Have everything you need?"

"That's not what I meant, Dean."

Dean can feel his brother's hazel eyes boring into the side of his face, but he doesn't attempt to make eye contact, Sam's tone of voice sending him into defense mode.

"Well," Dean huffs, "spit it out then, what did you mean?"

There's a long pause, their stilted silence filling the cab before Sam sighs. "I'm going to start applying to law schools this month and-" he stops.

"I know that, Sammy. Law school's always been your plan, been saving up for you for years; you know that."

"I know, Dean, I just didn't want it to come as a surprise to you when I start applying."

"Why would it come as a surprise to me?"

Dean sees Sam shrug out of the corner of his eye. "I don't know," Sam admits, "I just know how much you don't like change so-" Sam sighs, "I thought I'd remind you before it gets too close."

"Is that it?" Dean shifts and winces, again.

"Yeah, I guess so. Dean, are you okay?"

Dean casts a glance in his brother's direction and scowls at the look on Sam's face. "What do you mean am I okay? Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I don't know," Sam replies, and dammit if his voice isn't just the picture of innocence. "You look- uncomfortable," he points out, "just wondered if you were okay."

"I'm peachy, Sammy, mind your own damn business."

Sam snickers and turns his head out the window. "Okay, Dean," he mutters sarcastically.

Dean shakes his head and drives.

~

The subject of Sam and school remains a constant through dinner. Sam rambles on about the professors he's excited to have for the first time, something about outstanding ratings on Rate My Professor, and mentions how he has less credits this semester than he ever has before.

"What're you going to do with all your free time?" Dean wonders when Sam pauses to take a bite of his food. It's meant to be a sarcastic question, Dean knows Sam will most likely fill the time studying or geeking out with his geeky friends, but the answer Sam gives instead has Dean stopping mid-bite and staring at Sam.

"Ellen told me I could pick up some bartending shifts during shows," Sam informs Dean. "It won't fill all of my time, but at least it's something."

"You don't need a job." The words are out before Dean even realizes what he means by them, but it doesn't stop him from continuing, "I work so you can go to school, end of story."

"No, it's not the end of the story, Dean," Sam huffs. "I appreciate you doing that, really I do, but-" he stops and looks up at Dean, his ridiculously floppy hair falling into his eyes, making him look younger and more innocent. It's like a vice around Dean's heart.

Dean’s voice comes out hard, "But what?"

Sam shrugs, "I was thinking maybe I could help pay for you to go to school like you have been me."

All the air leaves Dean's lungs, and he doesn't know what to say. It's thoughtful of Sam to make the effort he's making, but school is something Dean gave up on a long time ago and thinking about it now leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and brings an anger that's never really gone away rising in his chest.

He'd had a plan. A plan that was going to make up for his mom's death and take care of his dad and Sammy. Not included in the plan was John winding up dead because of Dean. Or working as many jobs as it took to keep food on the table. Family friends - Bobby, Ellen, Missouri - had all stepped in and helped where they could, but Dean had long since given up any dreams he had of going anywhere in life other than Singer's Automotive and the Bunker.

"Obviously you can't go right now," Sam draws Dean from his reminiscent thoughts, "but another semester starts up in January. That's almost six months to save."

"School's not for me, Sam," Dean mutters, pushing food around on his plate. He wants to be mad at Sam for even suggesting the idea, but he can't find it in himself to get upset when all Sam's trying to do is help.

"It could be," Sam counters, his voice growing determined, "you were the smartest one in your class back in high school. Don't think I was too young to remember."

Dean looks up at Sam, into his wide, puppy-dog eyes, and shakes his head; the times Dean’d actually made it to school he  _had_ done well. But it didn't mean shit afterwards. “Yeah, right before I dropped out because Dad couldn't keep a job. Or stop stealing cash for booze. Or were you too young to remember that part?”

Sam's mouth pulls into a thin line, and Dean immediately feels guilty, goddammit. It wasn't Sam's fault John was a shitty dad. But Dean would be lying if he didn't admit there isn't a sliver of resentment towards Sam. Which also isn't fair, because again, not Sam's fault.

When Dean doesn't say anything, Sam presses on with a little less gusto than before, "At least think about it, Dean. I don't want to see you get stuck fixing cars for the rest of your life because you feel like that's all you're good at."

"I happen to like fixing cars," Dean counters, "so don't you go thinking I got  _stuck_ doing anything. Not everyone wants to be a lawyer, Sam; there are other jobs out there in the world."

Sam sighs. "I know that, Dean. You know that's not what I meant. Just, promise me you'll think about it, okay? That's all I'm asking."

"Fine," Dean relents, "I'll think about it. But if I do decide to go, and that's a big 'if,' Sammy, I'll be the one forking out the cash for it, not you. Got it?"

Sam's face is split by a wide grin, and he nods at Dean. "Got it," he agrees.  

"Great, now finish your dinner. No staying up late tonight, it's a school night."

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's feeble attempt at control but takes another bite of his dinner anyway.

When the table has been cleared, and the dishes washed and dried, Dean pulls a couple of beers out of the fridge and joins Sam on the couch, handing a bottle over to his brother and cracking his own open.

"You never answered my question earlier," Sam points out, eyes fixed on the television screen where a mother and calf moose are eating in a field.

"Answering your questions is something I actively try to avoid," Dean says offhandedly as he picks the remote up off the cushion next to him and flicks to the next channel, putting a swift end to whatever Animal Planet shit Sam was glued to.

"Hey, I was watching that, Dean!" Sam squawks in protest.

Dean smirks, " _Was_ being the key word, Sammy."

He ignores the " _Jerk_ ," Sam mutters under his breath and keeps his gaze on the screen as he flips through the channels.

"That  _was_ Cas with you earlier, wasn't it," Sam persists.

Dean's stomach does a flip flop at the mention of Castiel's name, but he remains calm under Sam's gaze. Dean taps the tip of his nose with one hand while still searching for something acceptable to watch with his other. He stops on Batman and settles into the couch, setting the TV remote out of Sam's reach.

Dean turns to flash a grin at Sam. "Michael Keaton always was my favorite Batman."

"So-"

"So, what, Sam? What's the big deal?"

"I didn't know you guys were friends." His voice is almost too casual for Dean's comfort. "That's all."

“Oh, is that all?" Dean mimics.

Sam is quiet for a moment, but Dean can still feel his brother's gaze on him, and so he looks at Sam and snaps, "What?"

Sam shrugs his shoulders, but the innocence he's exuberating bounces right off Dean and falls flat on the floor. Dean shakes his head and averts his gaze back to the television screen, but it's only a few seconds before Sam asks, "So, what'd you guys do today?"

Rather than snapping again Dean ignores Sam's question altogether. He's being nosy, and Dean is nowhere near ready to answer the kid's prying questions, so he takes the low road. "You know the rules, Sammy, you don't take a joint from a guy named Don, there's no dogs in the car, and talking during Batman is strictly prohibited."

"That last one isn't part of the rules," Sam protests.

Dean flashes him a wide smile, "It is now."

Sam grumbles something under his breath – Dean doesn't catch much other than  _emotionally constipated –_ and then takes a swig of his beer and falls quiet, much to Dean's relief.

At some point the truth about Dean and Castiel will have to come out, but Dean's not even sure what it is he'd say. And so, until he has some answers for himself he'll do whatever it takes to avoid that conversation entirely.

~

After the movie has ended and Sam has gone to bed Dean stays up for another hour or so, scouring the local community college's website for details on admission and the different classes they offer.

He falls asleep that night with  _possibility_ buzzing in his brain.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel orders a coffee and holes himself up in his favorite spot at Grace Cafe, a corner with a large, worn chair that's the most comfortable one in the cafe despite its upholstery screaming early seventies. The corner is right next to one of the big windows where sun can stream in freely and where Castiel can remain, for the most part, left to his own devices.

For the most part.

He's about half way through his coffee, and right in the middle of a particularly gripping chapter of _Cat's Cradle,_ when an all too familiar frame, hulking in size, looms over him.

Castiel looks up into the smiling face of Sam Winchester and does his best not to sigh. He's beginning to think he's some sort of Winchester-magnet, destined to draw them to him when he's least prepared for it.

"Hey, Cas," Sam greets.

Castiel nods. "Sam."

Sam drops himself onto the couch opposite Castiel, slipping his book bag over his head and letting it rest at his side.

Sam gestures towards Castiel's book. "Vonnegut?" Castiel nods and takes a sip of his coffee. "Dean loves Vonnegut."

"I didn't know Dean did a lot of reading." It's a lie; Castiel has seen firsthand Dean's collection of books, scattered among them at least three of Kurt Vonnegut's works, but just because Sam's seen him leaving Dean's room on at least one occasion doesn't mean Castiel is going to step up and admit it.

Sam smiles as he tips his coffee cup against his lips and takes a swallow. "There's probably a lot you don't know about Dean," he points out.

Castiel is silent for a moment, studying Sam's waiting face. "Well then, enlighten me."

"Why do you want to know?" Sam questions, even though Castiel is certain Sam's been waiting for the opportunity to gush about Dean for quite some time now.

Castiel shrugs. "I find your brother very... _intriguing_ ," he offers.

Sam furrows his brow, suspicion stealing his features. "Intriguing how?'

Perhaps Castiel was wrong. Maybe it's the If You Hurt Him I Will Kill You speech Sam's been waiting to dole instead.

Castiel runs his thumbnail along the textured exterior of his coffee cup, his eyes averted to the table. "I don't typically allow people to get close to me," he explains quietly, "but Dean has-" He stops and thinks. Dean has what? Only ever been exactly what Castiel has needed? Has crashed through so many walls, some Castiel wasn't even aware existed, and yet made Castiel feel more comfortable, more _wanted_ than he has in a long time? "He's different." He finally finishes, his eyes rising to meet Sam's.

Sam's features soften, and he settles back against the couch, nodding. "He may never see that for himself though."

"What do you mean?"

"Dean is hell bent on taking care of everyone before himself. He's been doing it since we were kids. Our mom died when he was four, and I don't think he realizes it, but ever since, he's been throwing himself into loving everyone else but himself."

"He doesn't think he deserves to be loved," Castiel mutters, realization hitting him square in the chest. All this time Dean's been taking care of Castiel, sexually, emotionally, physically... And Castiel is almost 100% certain it's because Dean genuinely cares, but also because he feels like he isn't good for anything else.

Sam hums in agreement. "After our dad's accident, Dean really gave up on himself. He dropped all his classes at school, started working sixty, seventy hours a week, did everything he could to make sure I was taken care of. He never came first."

Castiel frowns. “Accident?” Dean's spoken of his father before, mentioning a death too young, but Castiel had always assumed it had been a medical complication.

Sam's brows hit his hairline. “Dean's never-”

Castiel shakes his head, something heavy churning in his gut.

Sam's quiet for a beat, perhaps deciding whether Castiel is even worthy of the information. Finally, after a deep breath, he speaks. “Our dad was in a car accident. Dean was there.” It isn't much, and Castiel can sense there are still pieces Sam isn't sharing, but it's enough.

“Dean feels guilty,” Castiel mumbles, mostly to himself.

“He hardly ever admits to it, but yeah.”

As Sam talks about Dean, Castiel is reminded of one of those Paint-by-Number pieces he used to do as a child. At first the picture may seem strange, colorless, generic even, but as you slowly add the right colors in the right spots, you're finally able to see the overall beauty of the piece. Dean, Castiel is beginning to realize, is just like that, and now that he's getting more colors in the right places, Dean's turning into a new person, one Castiel's only had mostly black and white glimpses of before.

"It sounds like he takes good care of you, Sam," Castiel offers.

"He takes good care of everyone."

Castiel nods in agreement. Even in the short amount of time he and Dean have spent together, Castiel has seen Dean's nurturing side time and time again.

"So-" Sam stops for a moment, looking down at his knees, and picking at an errant thread on his jeans. "What's going on between you guys? I saw him dropping you off last week." When Sam looks up, his face is etched in guilt.

Castiel stares at his coffee cup, not knowing what to say. "Have you asked Dean that?" He’s certain he already knows the answer, but he asks anyway. If Sam's asking for an explanation from Castiel, it's probably because he isn't getting one from Dean.

"Not out right," Sam admits. "But I've given him opportunities to talk about it, and he won't. I was hoping you could fill me in on the details."

Castiel levels his gaze with Sam's. "I'm sorry, Sam. But if Dean isn't talking to you about what's going on between him and me, I'm sure he has a good reason for it." It's in that moment that Castiel realizes: he cares about maintaining Dean's trust. He may not know exactly what's going on between the two of them, but Dean trusting Castiel is important to him.

"That's the thing. He usually doesn't talk to me about this kind of stuff when he thinks it's going to hurt me. Any idea why he'd think that?"

Castiel offers Sam a shrug and shakes his head. Sam slumps back into the couch, sighing.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel offers again.

Sam waves his hand in the air. "I get it, Cas. Just don't-" Sam sighs a second time, as if he isn't sure how his words will be received, "Don't take advantage of him, okay? Our dad did that for most of our lives, and I still don't think Dean sees it that way, but it's true. But because of that, Dean has a distorted idea of what it means to be treated right."

"I don't want to hurt him." And the words are true. He's never thought about it before, but it feels as if that knowledge has been there all along, lurking somewhere beneath the surface. Dean is important to him, whether Castiel is ready to accept that or not, and Castiel genuinely doesn't want to cause Dean any pain.

The two of them are sitting in silence when Ruby approaches.

"Lively bunch," she comments as she plops down next to Sam.

"We were just talking about Dean," Sam offers.

Ruby smirks and looks at Castiel, eyebrow quirked. "Dean, huh?"

Castiel wills his eyes not to roll too hard and stands from his chair. "I believe it's time for work," he states, dropping his empty coffee cup into the nearby trash and grabbing his book off the table.

Sam offers Castiel a lopsided grin. "Bye, Cas. Thanks for chatting."

Castiel nods, "Goodbye, Sam." He flashes a look at Ruby and then heads for Rapture Records with his and Sam's conversation replaying on repeat in his brain, Sam's words eating him up inside.

It's like Dean has this whole other life Castiel has no idea about. And really, Castiel isn't in any position to point fingers; he keeps parts of himself hidden from Dean as well, but he can't help but wonder if Dean's scars run as deep as his own.

**:::**

_[2:14PM]_ **_Hey Cas this is Dean._ **

_[2:14PM]_ **_Sam and I are grilling for Labor Day weekend. You should come._ **

_[2:20PM]_ **_And don't even think about giving me some shit excuse about why you can't make it. I know the record store is closed on Labor Day and you'd just be at home drinking otherwise._ **

_[2:20PM]_ **_It starts at 6. Come hungry. There will be booze._ **

_[2:25PM]_ **_PS Sorry for all the texts._ **

_[2:26PM]_ **_Actually no I'm not. You better come._ **

Castiel stares down at his phone, reading and re-reading the texts from Dean. He isn't sure how Dean got his number in the first place, but he gets the feeling either Sam or Ruby have something to do with it - however he can’t say he’s bothered by it.

 _Who says I don't already have other plans?_ Castiel types out several minutes after the last message has arrived.

Dean is quick to respond. **_And what plans would those be?_ **

Castiel quirks a smile. _I do have about three hours worth of The Joy of Painting DVR'd..._

**_Don't even joke about that._ **

_I never joke about Bob Ross._ Just as Castiel hits send a customer approaches the counter with an armful of records. He doesn't see Dean's response until sometime later.

**_See you Sunday._ **

**:::**

The Sunday before Labor Day finds Castiel in the back of a cab with Ruby at his side.

His stomach is twisted in knots, and he rubs his palms across his thighs so many times Ruby reaches across the seat and squeezes his fingers.

"Why are you so nervous?"

Castiel scowls at her, folding his arms over his stomach. "I'm not nervous." They both know it's not true, but Ruby just rolls her eyes and shakes her head training her eyes out the window.

When they arrive at the Winchester's, Castiel almost considers not getting out of the cab. The last time he and Dean spoke, things were left so open-ended Castiel isn't sure where they stand.

Everything about their relationship so far has been twisted, out of the norm, unconventional. So much so that spending time with Dean now, just because, seems so easy it's almost terrifying.

Ruby seems to sense his unease, and she wraps a hand around his wrist attempting to tug him towards the door. "We're already here," she chides.

When Castiel doesn't follow her, Ruby turns to him with her hands on her hips. Her eyes are narrowed, but when she catches his expression, they soften. "He wants you here, Cas. That's why he invited you."

"That's what worries me," Castiel admits.

"So, what? You're just gonna sit out on the porch all night, wallowing in your self-deprecation?"

"I'm not being self-deprecating," Castiel counters, "I'm fleeing commitment."

Ruby clucks her tongue at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's a damn barbeque, Cas, not a fucking marriage proposal. Quit thinking about things so much." Her voice goes quiet, gentle. “Let yourself have this.”

Castiel scowls at her but follows her inside.

The basement is alive with laughter. Ruby immediately goes for Sam, who's behind the bar with Jo, and Castiel intends to follow her, but then Dean is there with a Kiss the Cook apron tied around his frame and a grin on his face.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's hair is red again, but the rest of his look is quite subtle compared to his usual get up. No eyeliner, a simple band tee, and holey jeans that fit a bit more snug than usual, and Dean looks comfortable, almost like his extreme hair colors and all-black attire is a shield, one he doesn't feel he needs to use now.

An awkward silence settles around them, and they stand staring at one another for a moment before Dean motions him further into the basement. "C'mon. Got some people I want you to meet."

Dean's hand finds its way to the small of Castiel's back, and Castiel allows himself to be led outside where the grill is going and lawn chairs are set up around the yard. Some of the people milling about, Castiel recognizes as Dean's usual crowd, but a few others he's never seen before.

First, he meets Bobby Singer, the man who owns the garage Dean works at and who Dean refers to as being just as much of a father to he and Sam as his old man was. The man's grip is strong as they shake hands, and he peers at Castiel with a guarded look.

"Castiel, huh? So, you're the one who's been stealing Dean away so often lately."

"Uh..." Castiel looks to Dean, but Dean just waves his hand in the air.

"He's just trying to be scary," Dean explains.

Castiel relaxes ever so slightly with a nod of his head.

"Who says I'm not scary?" Bobby counters.

"I do, ya big softy. Lay off."

Bobby scowls at Dean and wanders off to the beer cooler.

Next is Ellen Harvelle, Jo's mother and Dean's boss at the Bunker. She, like Bobby, seems a little rough around the edges, but the way Dean looks at her, like she's one of the most important people in his life, tells Castiel she's probably just as soft as Dean claims Bobby is.

"Hey, Dean! You plan on serving food at this barbeque, or what?" It's shouted across the yard by Victor (whose just recently started dating Jo, Cas is told).

Dean flips Victor off over his shoulder and leads Castiel to the grill. "You got any experience grilling?"

"Not really," Castiel admits.

"Alright, how 'bout a crash course for today?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "My grill is not a guinea pig. You either know how to work it or you don't. Capiche?"

Castiel sighs even though the thought of being close to Dean for just a bit longer isn't the most terrible thought he's had all day. "You're so high maintenance," he declares anyway, because the way Dean's face scrunches up in a disagreeing frown is a little bit too amusing to pass up.

" _I'm_ high maintenance?" Dean’s voice is tinged with offense. The corners of Castiel's mouth tug up, and he knocks Dean's shoulder with his own. Dean's frown melts. "Was that a- did you just make a joke?"

Castiel shrugs. "Maybe."

"Now he's got jokes," Dean mutters, stepping behind Castiel and picking up a pair of large prongs. Castiel smirks.

He watches aptly as Dean shows him how to work the barbecue, breath held as Dean's chest presses warmly against his back. The lesson would probably be just as effective with Dean standing at Castiel's side, but Castiel enjoys the strong presence behind him.

As expected manning the grill is not rocket science, and within a few minutes Castiel gently pries the tongs from Dean's hand and assures him his precious barbecue is in good hands.

Dean's arm comes to wrap around Cas's waist, and he presses a soft kiss against Castiel's neck. "I'm glad you came," he murmurs before walking away and leaving a cold void at Castiel's back. He shivers, turning over the burgers, and smiles privately down at the patties.

~

The afternoon bleeds into evening quickly. Twilight is just blooming on the horizon when Jo slides into the seat across from Castiel's. "Yo, nerds," she says, pulling a chip from Dean's plate and popping it into her mouth. "We still watching a movie after this shindig, or what?

Dean bats her hand away when she reaches for another. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to take food off of other people's plates?" Dean balks, scowling when Jo's hand darts below his and succeeds another chip.

Jo smiles wide as she puts it in her mouth. "Nope."

"What was that, Joanna Beth?" Ellen scolds, coming up behind Jo and giving her daughter a stern look.

Jo rolls her eyes. "It was just a chip, ma."

"Two chips," Dean amends.

Jo covers her face with her hands and groans. "Fucking Winchesters."

Ellen winks at Dean over Jo's shoulder and meanders off, walking towards Bobby, and tugging his beer out of his hands to take a swig when she reaches him. Castiel watches Dean watch Ellen with a smile on his face.

"So, movie," Jo says, "yes or no."

"Yes, now get out of my face and go get me some pie."

Jo huffs at Dean but stands from the table and stalks off. "Cas, too!" Dean shouts after her. She responds with her middle finger thrown over her shoulder. When they're alone at the table again, Dean turns his gaze towards Castiel.

"You gonna stay?" he wonders almost cautiously. Castiel studies his face for a moment, basking in how easy it's been to be with Dean and his patchwork family all day. His anxiety levels have been low, his urge to run, to isolate himself at a bare minimum.

"I suppose I could stay a bit longer."

Dean puffs out a laugh, shakes his head. "You're such a selfless guy, Cas, goddamn."

Castiel shrugs. "I do what I can."

~

Castiel nurses a beer as most of the guests clear out. Dean's refused his help more times than once over the course of the hour, so Castiel's planted himself on the couch in the den, waiting.

Ruby plops down next to him, curling her legs up underneath her and leaning into Castiel's side. "Looks like you've been having fun today," she points out quietly, reaching for his beer and glowering when Castiel holds it out of her reach.

"It hasn't been terrible," Castiel mutters.

Ruby lets out a laugh. "Good god, Castiel. You're such an ass, you know that?"

"Yes."

Ruby pokes him in the ribs. "You're staying though. That's a good sign, right?"

Castiel swivels his gaze until it's locked firmly with Ruby's glittering brown eyes. "Why do I get the feeling you're more invested in what happens between Dean and I than I am?"

"I just like seeing you happy," Ruby answers, but Castiel knows her too well.

"You're too nosy for your own good."

"Can you blame me, Cas? You've given me a front row seat to better drama than I could get watching fucked up reality TV. I can't look away." Her hand shoots out, and she snatches his beer out of his grasp, smiling satisfied as she takes a swig.

Castiel frowns. "You're officially the worst cousin I've ever had."

Ruby shrugs. "I've been called worse."

"It's probably all true."

Before Ruby can respond, Dean is there looming over the two of them and glaring down at Ruby. "You can move now."

"Easy there, tiger," Ruby coos, standing from the couch, "I was just keeping it warm for you." She waves Castiel's beer bottle in the air. "Thanks for the beer, cuz." Castiel scowls at her as she goes.

"Mind if I sit?" Dean asks with a quirk of his brow. Castiel shakes his head, and Dean sits beside him, draping an arm across the back of the couch and settling in.

As Castiel lets out a yawn, one that comes without his permission, Dean offers him a soft smile. "You tired, Cas?"

"I think I drank too much," Castiel admits. He didn't have much, but apparently, he had enough to give him a warm, sleepy feeling.

"Well my shoulder's available if you need a pillow."

Castiel smiles a little. "Thanks."

Castiel's eyes grow heavy before the movie is even half way over. He tips against Dean, letting his head fall on the other man's shoulder, and sighs when Dean's arm curls around him.

"You wanna lay down?" Dean’s words are barely audible above the sound of the film.

Castiel almost says no, the initial thought of lying with Dean without sex frightening, but then he realizes how safe he feels and nods.

Dean chuckles and helps Castiel sit up.

It takes a small amount of maneuvering to get them both positioned, but after Dean's draped a blanket over the two of them and Castiel can feel the gentle beat of Dean's heart beneath the palm Castiel has pressed to his chest, Castiel lets his eyes slide closed and relaxes.

Dean's fingernails scrape gently at the nape of Castiel's neck, and he kisses his forehead, wiggling further under the blanket until it feels like all that exists is Castiel, Dean, and the warmth surrounding them.

Castiel sleeps better that night, cramped on Dean's couch with the other man's breath ghosting into his hair, then he has in over a year.

**:::**

Castiel spends most of his day thinking about Dean and their relationship. A few weeks ago, he would have drank away any thoughts of Dean, and he's still tempted to now. But it's getting almost impossible to deny that he wants Dean in his life.

Being with Dean does not erase what happened or make his past irrelevant; it doesn’t fix him, but if nothing else, battling the darkness seems bearable around him and that's more than he can say for anyone else.

In the early afternoon, his cell buzzes with a new text from Dean.

**_Had a good time the other night. Sam was real glad you came._ **

Castiel smirks. It appears he may not be the only one experiencing a slight case of denial over their feelings.

 _Is that what we’re calling you now? Sam?_ Castiel types out. _Don’t you think that will get confusing at some point?_

Dean's response comes quickly, **_I hate you._ **

Castiel quirks a smile. It feels so normal to be texting Dean like this, almost like they're in a regular, healthy relationship and this is just something they do.

Their conversation carries on for most of the afternoon. It's mostly light, snarky banter, but it gets Castiel through his shift at the record store.

When Ruby comes in to take over for the evening there's a knowing glint in her eyes. She doesn't say anything, just stands behind the counter with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face, and Castiel can feel the questions burning holes in her tongue.

"What?" he snaps, pointedly not looking at her.

"So, Sunday... "

"Don’t."

Ruby's hands drop to her sides, and the smirk clears from her face as she elbows him gently. "You do like him though," she states. "I haven't seen you spend this much time with someone in a while."

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but Ruby continues, her words coming out in a rush like she's afraid he won't listen to whatever else it is she has to say.

"And don't even tell me it's just sex, Cas. I saw the way you two looked at each other. He's in deep for you. And you," Ruby shrugs her shoulders, "you can get sex anywhere. I have a hard time believing that's the only reason you're sticking around."

Castiel, feeling exposed at Ruby's observation, simply mutters a quiet, "Whatever, Ruby," under his breath.

"What's wrong with admitting you care about him? No one's going to point their finger at you and say, 'I told you so.'"

Castiel casts an accusatory glance in Ruby's direction with an eyebrow raised.

"Okay, so I probably would, but only because you're being an ass about it."

"Did you expect me not to be?"

The bell above the door chimes, and Castiel and Ruby both look towards the sound. Anna breezes through the door, her willowy frame bundled in an oversized sweater and tall boots.

"What are we talking about?" she asks, approaching the counter. She folds her arms and rests them on the counter, her wide, grey eyes flitting between Castiel and Ruby.

"Nothing," Castiel responds at the same time Ruby answers with, "Dean."

The look Castiel shoots Ruby is murderous, but she ignores it. Really, the last thing Castiel wants to do is discuss his sex life with his cousins who have an opinion about everything and aren't afraid to share it. His thoughts and feelings on Dean are confusing enough already, he doesn't need advice from the peanut gallery.

Anna’s face visibly brightens, "Oh, what about him?"

Castiel says nothing.

"Listen, Cas," Ruby says, "I can't believe I'm saying this, and if you ever tell Dean I said it, I will have you suffocated in your sleep, but you could do worse. Dean is actually a pretty good guy."

"And he's _hot_ ," Anna adds, "not too long ago you would have been all over that."

"Last weekend he was all over 'that,'" Ruby supplies conspiratorially. Castiel shoots her a glare, but she just smiles at him, all her teeth showing.

"See, Cas," Anna quips, "you can do this. You're thinking too much about it. If the two of you like being around each other,why not just let it happen?"

"It's not that simple, Anna."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not. I don't like the idea of having to worry about another person while I'm trying to deal with everything else."

Anna’s eyes turn soft and pleading, and he knows whatever she's about to say he doesn't want to hear. "Cas, you're not dealing."

They're getting too close to talking about _It_. It's hanging in the air like a dark and threatening cloud, and Castiel can feel a familiar anxiety settling over him. All the ease he felt earlier rolls off him, clearing a space for the throbbing pain that's all too willing to take its place.

"Fuck off," Castiel mutters, "both of you." He gathers his things and stalks out of the store, heart pounding. As he climbs the stairs to his apartment, his phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it.

The message, he assumes from Dean, goes unopened.

 

**\---**

 

Dean climbs the stairs to Castiel's apartment wondering if popping in to check on Cas because he stopped responding to Dean’s texts in the middle of their conversation is too clingy.

When he reaches Castiel's hallway and sees Meg sitting outside the door, he'll admit he's concerned. He knocks on the door anyway and waits. There isn't any music blaring from behind the door, no questionable smells in the air like last time, but there also isn't an answer. Dean knocks again and gives it a beat before trying the door handle. The apartment is unlocked.

Dean lets himself inside, tripping over Meg as she bolts in front of him, and spots Castiel laying stomach down on the bed, his arms folded under his head and a cigarette held between two fingers, smoke curling up into the air and out the open window.

"Go away, Dean." The words come mumbled from the mattress, and Dean stops in his approach towards the bed.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Process of elimination," Castiel hedges, "and everyone else I know understands that when someone doesn't answer their door that typically means they either aren't home, or they want to be left the fuck alone."

Dean ignores Castiel's snappy response and sits down on the bed next to him. "I thought you were getting high," Dean admits. Castiel ignores him.

"What happened?" Dean questions after a few beats. He's only known Castiel a short while, but in that time, he’s learned that Castiel only smokes cigarettes when he's deeply bothered. And that the despondent set of Castiel's shoulders, apparent even though he's laying down, means he's drowning in his own thoughts.

"What do you mean what happened?" Castiel growls.

"You smoke when you're upset," Dean points out, "what happened? And don't say you don't want to talk about it because I'm not going anywhere. I'm not typically a sharing and caring kind of guy myself, but hell it's worth a shot, huh? Talk to me."

It's quiet for a while, Dean watching Castiel's back rise and fall with each breath he takes and Castiel keeping his head buried in the mattress, but after a minute, Castiel rolls onto his back and fixes his eyes on the ceiling.

"I'm depressed," he finally mutters before taking a drag of his cigarette. Dean lies down next to him, fits himself against Castiel's side and props his head on his hand. Other than the line of their hips and legs pressed together he's careful not to touch Castiel unless otherwise welcomed.

"Why are you depressed?"

"Because my life is fucked up," Castiel supplies, "and because everyone seems to have something to say about it." His eyes slide to Dean's then and they aren't as guarded as they usually are, but there's still that familiar pain Dean's come to associate with Cas etched so deep inside them he'd drown trying to reach it.

They both grow quiet, Castiel puffing away on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth, while Dean studies his face trying to unravel the mystery that is Castiel.

"Why'd you stop answering my texts?" It's probably the wrong thing to say considering the mood Castiel's in, and technically they aren't dating, but they also aren't nothing to each other, so Dean feels he has a right to ask. How else is he supposed to learn the ropes with Cas anyway?

Castiel puts out the butt of his cigarette, flicking it into the ashtray on the window sill. "I didn't want to talk anymore."

Castiel's honesty doesn't hurt like it used to now that Dean's learning to decipher Castiel's tone. And, after reminding himself there's always more than what Castiel's letting on, he pushes Castiel's comment aside. "Too bad for you, I was just getting ready to send you sexy picture messages," Dean says with an easy smile. "I had my lace panties on and everything."

Castiel groans despairingly, somewhere in there is Dean's name, and then he pushes Dean into the mattress and rolls on top of him, grabbing the lapels of Dean's jacket and kissing him with no reservations. Dean weaves his fingers into the hair at the nape of Cas's neck and places his other hand on his back, kissing back around a smile.

"So, you _do_ like the idea of me in lace panties," Dean jokes when they pull away. "What color? Are you a black or a red kind of guy?"

"Dean, why are you here?" There's no anger behind the question even though it's asked with a tired air about it.

"Missed you," he states honestly. "I tried calling, but you didn't answer."

"I shut my phone off after I left work," Castiel admits as he rolls off Dean and curls against Dean's side, resting his head against his outstretched arm and throwing an arm over his chest.

"Somebody piss you off at work or something?"

Castiel is slow to respond, but Dean waits while Cas mulls over his thoughts, knowing he'll speak when he's good and ready. "Ruby and Anna," Castiel finally offers. "They bombarded me about you and me, and then Anna proceeded to tell me, in so many words, how I'm living my life incorrectly."

Red hot irritation flares in Dean’s chest. "What's going on between us is nobody's business but our own," he states sternly. “You don't have to tell them a damn thing."

"I know that, Dean – not that I'd know what to tell them anyway – but for some reason, conversations about you always bring up other subjects I don't want to talk about, and that's the problem."

"Fuck them both," Dean says, irritation still coursing through him. There's a difference between people knowing they're involved and people shoving their opinions where they don't belong. Especially when they make Castiel spiral like this.

Castiel chuckles, "That's what I said."

"So, what'd they say about me? I have too many piercings? I wear too much black? I'm a good for nothing dropout with six bucks to my name? Nothing I haven't heard before, Cas. I've never been the guy you take home to mommy and daddy."

"They were both in favor of you, actually.”

Dean looks over at Castiel as best he can; the guy's face is a little close and out of focus, but they make eye contact well enough. Dean's eyebrows are raised, surprise clearly etched in his features as he croaks out, "They were?"

"Ruby even went as far as to say you're a good guy. Granted she choked on the words as they came out, but I feel she was being honest. Oh, and I'm not supposed to tell you she said that."

Dean's at a loss for words. He's had one steady relationship in his life--he made it two months with Cassie Robinson before his life got to be too much for her--but no one he’s ever been with came paired with a family who encouraged the relationship.

"Huh," is all Dean can manage after a few seconds of processing.

"If it makes you feel any better, Naomi would be out for blood if she knew about you."

"Who, now?"

"Naomi, she's my mother."

"The same mother you aren't in contact with?" Dean asks, because Cas hasn't told him a whole hell of a lot, but he's made it clear the only family he has is here.

Castiel chuckles darkly. "The very same. I think I am the worst thing to ever happen to that woman. And that includes a messy divorce from my father, being despised by my uncles, and-" Castiel stops for a beat. “I'm of the opinion she hates me.”

"That bad, huh?"

"I'm sure my childhood trauma is no worse than anyone else's," Castiel remarks. He wiggles closer to Dean and buries his face in Dean's neck, inhaling deeply and letting out a long sigh. "You smell good."

He seems to be giving not being a grumpy shit a genuine effort, and Dean appreciates the attempt. He reaches over and runs his fingers through Castiel's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and Castiel's body goes lax beside him. They lay there like that, neither needing to say anything, the silence content and unassuming. When Castiel's breathing grows heavy, Dean gently pulls out of Castiel's grasp and rolls onto his side to face the other man. Castiel blinks at him, his eyes bleary and tired, and Dean offers him a grin.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Because as much as I love the thought of staying in bed with you all day, I did have ulterior motives when I came over."

Castiel's eyes narrow. "What motives? I'm too tired for sex."

"Not sex, Cas. A date. – Check your voicemail if you don’t believe me."

"A date?"

"Yeah, you know," Dean waves his hand in the air, "Two people going out and doing something together cause they like being around each other. Any of this sounding familiar to you?"

"I think I saw it in a movie once."

Dean peers over at Cas. There's a tired smile on his face as he looks at Dean through his lashes, and Dean's stomach does a somersault in result. Castiel puts his hands on either side of Dean's face and draws him in for a kiss, their tongues flirting around one another, their touches gentle. It's easy for Dean to get lost in this, to get lost with Castiel, warm and pliant beside him, with neither of them expecting anything from one another.

When Dean pulls back, Castiel chases Dean's lips with his own for more, and Dean chuckles into the kiss, giving easily, kissing back willingly. Castiel hums into the kiss, and Dean is reluctant to pull away but does anyway.

"C'mon," he says, "movie starts in 15 minutes. Go powder your nose."

"Movie?" Castiel wonders as Dean sits up and climbs off the bed.

"True Grit is playing at that old theater down the street," Dean explains, raising his hands above his head in an easy stretch, his joints popping and cracking as he twists and turns. "I'll even let you try to hold my hand in the popcorn bucket."

Castiel follows Dean off the bed. "No popcorn," he says as he heads for his bathroom.

He comes back out having washed his face and hands, scrubbing off the clinging scent of nicotine, and pulls his shirt over his head as he wanders towards his dresser. He pulls out a sweater and a clean pair of jeans and changes while Dean absolutely does not stare at his ass.

"Wearing pants that tight all the time can't be good for your sperm count," Dean mutters as he follows Cas out of the apartment. Castiel stops to scratch behind Meg's ears as he passes the couch, then locks up behind them.

"Which is definitely something I'm worried about." Castiel retorts as he heads down the hall. "I'll start shopping for looser pants immediately."

"No, you'll just steal all of mine," Dean mutters, following behind him.

They walk down to the theater, Castiel reaching out for Dean's hand on the way, linking their fingers together and letting the too-long sleeve of his sweater fall over their conjoined hands. They banter back and forth about Cas's pants and Dean's thing for John Wayne, and honestly Castiel is the type of person Dean could sit and talk to all night long. John Wayne be damned.

Dean buys their tickets at the dusty, old booth out front of the theater, and then, Castiel pulls him inside and right past the concession counter, ignoring Dean's protests.

"I said no popcorn, Dean," Castiel chides. "You need to save room."

"Save room for what? I'm starving!"

They're filing into the theater now. It's not dark yet, some bogus commercials playing on a loop flickering across the screen, and Castiel leads Dean to the back.

"You're buying me dinner after the show," Castiel informs him as he settles into one of the squeaky chairs.  

"I am?"

"You said this was a date," Castiel reminds Dean. "And if I have to sit through two hours of an old western just so you can get off on a dead guy, I figure I deserve to be bought dinner afterwards. I might even put out at the end of the night." He flourishes the statement with an obnoxious flutter of his eyelashes. "Because I'm easy like that."

"I'll say," Dean grumbles as the lights dim and the opening credits roll. Castiel squeezes his hand.

~

When they step outside, they're met with a light drizzle that coats the sidewalks a shade darker and makes the air smell like earth and autumn. By the time they're standing beside Dean's car, Cas's hair is damp and curling behind his ears and at the base of his neck. It makes him look so normal, so reachable, and Dean drags him in with a fist bunched in Cas's stupid sweater and kisses him as rain falls on their eyelashes and cheeks.

“What was that for?” Castiel asks, mouth still so close to Dean's. His eyes are closed, and his face is still tilted up, and Dean takes a moment to brush his lips over Cas's cheekbones, and forehead.

“It was for nothing,” Dean tells him, smiling. “Just don't think I've ever kissed you for the sole purpose of wanting to.”

Cas guides Dean's mouth down to his own again, and once they finally slip into the car, they’re both wet and smiling.

Dean cranks up the heater and pulls away from the curb. “Where we going, Edlund?”

Castiel directs him to some hole-in-the-wall Italian place not too far from Lazarus Street and tucks himself deep inside his sweater.

"They better have something decent on the menu, or we're going for burgers."

"What do you have against Italian?" Castiel wonders as he ejects Dean's tape from the tape deck and starts surfing through the radio stations.

Dean swats his hand away and pushes the tape back in. "I don't have anything against Italian; it's the fact that _you_ picked this place that worries me."

"I went to your little cowboy film with you; the deal was you buy me dinner after. It makes perfect sense that I'd choose where we eat."

"I swear you only paid attention to half the fucking movie," Dean retorts. "How ‘bout I pay for half your food, and we'll call it even."

Castiel reaches over and ejects the tape again pulling it completely out of the deck, tossing it to the ground and turning the knob of the tuner against the static. Dean rolls to a stop under the glare of a red light, the engine rumbling beneath them.

"Put the tape. Back in the deck. _Now_ ," Dean grits out. His eyes are trained on the road in front of him not daring to look at Castiel in fear his resolve will crack. One glance at Castiel's big, ridiculously blue eyes and he'll break, he just knows he will, so he stares out into the darkness, standing his ground.

Castiel continues to search for a channel that meets his approval seemingly unfazed by Dean's strong opinion on the matter. "Count down from ten, Dean, I hear it helps." His voice is full of mild amusement. He finally stops fiddling when he finds a folk station and leans back in his seat, satisfied, as a loose twangy beat fills the air. A car honks behind them, and Dean flips his hazard lights on, easing off to the side of the road on the otherwise empty street.

“Car ain't moving until you put some _real_ music on.”

Castiel looks over at Dean and smirks, "Oh come on, Winchester," he tsks, "you're really going to pout about this?"

"Oh, I'm not pouting," Dean counters, his voice coming out easy and light, proving to Castiel just how much he's not pouting over a stupid tape. "I'm just waiting for you to put the tape back in the deck."

He's still not looking at Castiel, but he can feel the other man's gaze shift to him, boring into the side of his face in an almost tangible way. Castiel slides across the seat and puts a hand on Dean's thigh as he noses at the hair on Dean's temple for a brief second before purring into Dean's ear, "What's wrong with my music, Dean?" He moves to drop a kiss on Dean's neck. "Haven't you ever heard of a compromise?" His hand moves higher and higher up Dean's thigh until he's cupping Dean in his jeans and biting at the fleshy lobe of Dean's ear.

"Are you seriously trying to seduce me into listening to your moody crap?"

"Is it working?" Castiel rumbles lowly. His fingers are in Dean's hair now, massaging at the nape of his neck while his other hand works at Dean's groin.

"Kind of," Dean admits after looking down at his crotch and realizing he's getting aroused.

He throws the car into park and grabs a handful of Castiel's sweater, pushing the other man down into the cool, leather seat of the Impala and maneuvering himself awkwardly on top of him, smashing their lips together in a hungry, lustful kiss. He buries his fingers in Castiel's hair, cupping his head in his hand and holding Castiel's face close to his. With his free hand, he reaches down and grapples along the floor until his fingers brush hard plastic and he wraps them around the tape, pulling away from Castiel and sitting up, the tape held up for Cas to see.

"Yeah, I can fight dirty, too," Dean states gruffly, waving the tape in the air as Castiel has the gall to look offended. Dean shoves the tape back in the deck and points a finger at Castiel who’s shooting daggers at Dean, half smashed up against the door, his hair mussed and sweater rumpled.

"Now that," Dean says with a cocky grin, "is my kind of compromise." He reaches for the volume knob and turns it up as the sounds of Metallica pipe in over the speakers. Shifting the car back into drive, he turns off his hazards and belts out the lyrics to “Enter Sandman.”

Beside him Castiel sits back up and smooths out his sweater, runs his fingers through his hair. Dean can barely hear the muttered, "Asshole," that's shot his way, but he knows Castiel well enough to know it's been said.

~

At the restaurant Castiel orders for them, a pizza called Big Piggy* that Dean doesn't get the chance to see the ingredients of before his menu is being whisked away by their waitress. When it arrives, Dean eyes it cautiously.

"What the hell is on this thing?" he asks as Castiel slides a slice onto his plate and douses it in crushed red peppers.

"Ham, bacon, sausage, and raw honey," Castiel responds. He cuts off a bite with his fork and watches as Dean analyzes his slice. "Don't flirt with your food, Dean, it's not polite."

Dean tears his eyes from the pizza, glancing up at Castiel. "I don't do honey on my pizza."

"Have you tried it before?"

It's a simple question, but it irritates Dean. He doesn't need to try it; he knows he doesn't like it, and so he says as much. Castiel shoots the glare Dean's learned to interpret as I-am-so-done-with-you-Dean-Winchester across the table and closes his mouth around a bite of pizza.

"Why don't you just try it, Dean? You might like it."

 _One bite_ , Dean tells himself, _one bite and if it's disgusting, burgers it is_. He picks up the slice of pizza and takes a fair-sized bite out of it, chewing carefully, prepared to spit it out if needs be – he is not above acting like he's two years old.

His mouth explodes with flavor, the honey bringing out the taste in the meats and meshing it all together in a sweet and greasy combination. In short, it's delicious. "I don't hate it," he admits to Castiel's quirked eyebrow.

"That's what you said about the Feathers, too," Castiel points out. "When are you going to learn that I have impeccable taste?"

"When you stop wearing shit that looks like it came from your grandma’s basement," Dean shoots back quickly.

Castiel counters smoothly, "Said the man who wears more eyeliner than Billie Joe Armstrong."

Dean offers Castiel a pert grin. "The correct term," he says as he shoves more pizza into his mouth, "is _guy_ liner."

"I don't know what's more disconcerting, the fact that there's a term for it or the fact that you buy into it."

"Life's mysteries," Dean says. Castiel lets out a small huff.

On the drive home Dean happily blares his music again, Castiel sitting petulant as ever by his side, and when he pulls up to the curb in front of Castiel's apartment, Dean kills the engine and steps out of the car.

It's not raining anymore, but the moisture still clings to the pavement and drips down window panes and street lamps, adding to the chill of the September night air.

Castiel climbs out of the car and eyes Dean wearily as he approaches the passenger side of the Impala.

Dean comes to stand in front of Castiel. "Why are you looking at me like I might try to rob you of your virtue?"

"Because you might try to rob me of my virtue."

"Sweetheart, if that was my intent, I'd be in for a huge disappointment ‘cause you don't have a drop of virtue left in you."

"I might," Castiel retorts, "hidden somewhere in the confines of my corrupted ways."

"Doubtful," Dean waits for the look on Castiel's face to retreat, but it doesn't. Dean sighs and shakes his head. "I just want to walk you up," he asserts, voice climbing in volume. "Is that okay? _Fuck_."

Castiel studies him for a moment more before nodding once and stepping away from the car and heading towards his apartment, Dean close in his wake. They climb the stairs with next to no conversation, and when they get to Castiel's door, he's looking down at the keys in his hands like a shy school girl who's never kissed anyone before. It's a complete one-eighty from Cas's usually harsh edges, this whole other part of him Dean's only nicked the surface of.

"Hey," Dean says quietly, his finger coming up underneath Castiel's chin. "What's up?"

Castiel's eyes are sinking into his own, the hard outer shell that's usually present melting away, leaving him laid bare before Dean. "I like dates," he finally admits, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and worrying at it absently.

Dean smiles at him and fits a hand to Castiel's hip. "Me too." The words are accompanied by a brush of his lips against Castiel’s. When they pull away, neither speaks, both just staring with a certain kind of intensity Dean's never experienced with anyone else. Dean clears his throat, a nervous tick. "Cas, I-"

Castiel's eyes are waiting, wanting, somehow sensing the words Dean wants to say but not actually knowing what they are.

 _I want to be with you,_ Dean thinks. _I want this, dates,_ you _, all the time._

"Yes?"

"I uh-" Dean scuffs his boot against the floor. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Castiel's face falls, if only marginally, and Dean curses himself for officially being the world's biggest chickenshit.

Cas nods, his eyes slipping to the floor. "Good night, Dean." He turns and steps inside his apartment, closing the door behind him.

Dean lets out a sigh. "Night, Cas."

As Dean walks down to the Impala, he wishes he were physically able to kick his own ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Big Piggy is based off of a pizza called Pig Smiley that [literaryoblivion](https://www.tumblr.literaryoblivion.com) and I get at this little pizza joint in Texas. If you're ever in the area I HIGHLY recommend [Eno's Pizza Tavern](https://www.enospizza.com) in Bishop Arts, Dallas.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean doesn't hear from Castiel for over a week. It's a blatant sign Dean fucked up and knowing there may have been something to fuck up in the first place makes him feel even worse.

He tries not to mope, throwing himself into his work at Bobby's and picking up as many odd jobs at the Bunker as he can to keep his brain from replaying Castiel's face as they stood outside his door after their date. He was waiting for Dean to make a move, something that would tip them over the edge of Nothing-ish to Definitely Something. And Dean had just walked away like the cowardly asshole he is.

To make matters worse, Sam's been gone more often than not lately, taking on extra study groups and practically living at the school library. Dean's happy for the kid, he's getting ready to make a life for himself, but in all honesty, Dean's starting to feel lonely. He's never been good at being alone.

"You gonna be home for dinner?" Dean asks Sam over the phone as he swings the Impala into the driveway.

_"I don't know, Dean. I'm supposed to have a tutoring session with Brady in an hour."_

Dean kills the engine and slumps against the seat. "I thought you were supposed to have more free time this semester."

Sam sighs. He sounds tired. _"I am. It's just going to take me a few weeks to get used to being back."_

"You've been in school for a month, Sam," Dean points out. He knows he's being an asshole, but he feels a little bit like he's been abandoned, both by his brother and by his... Cas, and that makes him irritable.

_"Dean, can I talk to you about this when I get home? I really have to go."_

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and tampers his urge to snap at Sam. "Sure, see you at home. Lasagna tonight if you're around."

_"I'll try and make it."_

When the call ends, Dean stares at his phone for a beat. If he didn't know any better he'd say Sam's avoiding him.

On his way inside, Dean stops at the mailbox, pulling out a small stack of envelopes – all bills, probably – and a thick, legal sized envelope addressed to Sam. Frowning, Dean glances at the return address.

_Stanford University  
_ _450 Serra Mall  
_ _Stanford, CA 94305-2004_

As the realization sinks in, Dean's stomach plummets to the ground. Stanford University. Sam's applying to Stanford. That's why he's been so distant lately; he doesn't want Dean to know he's planning on moving clear across the country. He doesn't want Dean to know he's leaving him.

_Stanford._

Dean stumbles into the house, setting aside all the mail but Sam's, and wills himself to think his thoughts, feel his feelings. Instead he goes straight for the booze.

As soon as the liquid scorches down his throat and settles warm and heavy in his belly, Dean allows himself to look at the big white envelope sitting on his table like a blinking neon sign that his time with Sam has an expiration date.

_Fucking Stanford._

And now Dean knows, _this_ , this is what Sam meant by his whole “I just didn't want it to come as a surprise to you when I start applying” bit. He meant Stanford.

When Dean is good and buzzed, he drains the last few drops straight out of the bottle and fumbles with his phone, opening a text to Charlie.

 **_Sammy's leavnig me_ ** _._ He types out, his fingers pecking at the keys in a stilted motion. He doesn't know why he sends the message, suffering in silence is more his MO, but his brain feels like it's about to explode with the lead-like burden of being left behind. He has to talk to _someone._

Charlie's response is almost immediate. _What?_ Followed quickly by, _R u ok?_

 ** _Not drnk enuf._** There isn't enough fire in his belly or fuzz in his brain to be answering questions like _Are you okay?_

His phone doesn't beep for another minute, and Dean thinks maybe he should have kept his thoughts to himself. But then Charlie texts back a simple _On my way_ , and a thread of relief wriggles through him.

~

Charlie lets herself in, appearing in the kitchen with a brown paper bag in her hands and Jo trailing behind her.

Charlie pulls out a chair, joining Dean at the table, and pulls a bottle of tequila out of the bag. Jo fishes out some shot glasses and settles in next to Dean.

"Spill it, Winchester," Jo instructs, plinking a shot glass down in front of him. Charlie pours some of the gold liquid into Dean's glass, and they blink at him expectantly.

_Nosy little rats._

"Sam's going to Stanford," Dean states, his voice sounding dull in his own ears. He slaps down the thick envelope he's been staring at all evening and throws back the shot. It leaves a fiery trail all the way down to his stomach, just what he needs. He always was a fan of Jose.

A look passes between Charlie and Jo, and Dean reaches for the bottle. Their silence gives him the eerie feeling they're not as surprised as he was when he found out. "Am I the only one that didn't know?" he mulls, pouring himself some more.

Jo pours herself a shot, liquid sloshing over the edge of the glass as she raises it to her lips. "I didn't know about Stanford," she admits before tipping back the glass. She holds the bottle out to Charlie who's light green eyes flit back and forth between Jo's urging gaze and Dean's accusing one. She bites at her bottom lip as she holds up her glass.

"I don't totally have it bad for Tessa." She closes her eyes, and Dean watches her take the shot.

Two pairs of eyes are now staring at him, waiting for him to make the next move. He can wallow in his self-pity and cry over his baby brother, or he can forget, drown his pain in too much Jose Cuervo. Dean rolls his eyes.

"I'm not afraid of being alone," he finally offers, drinking straight from the bottle. Jo tugs it from his hands, refilling all their glasses, and sets it out of the way.

They go in rounds, confessing things to each other under the shroud of denial and drinking until the contents of the bottle are nearly diminished.

"I didn't suck your brother off in 10th grade," Jo admits.

"I didn't cheat on Pacman Fever, so I would have the highest score," Charlie confesses.

"I didn't see Bobby cry when I gave him a Father's Day card," Dean says around a dopey grin. He'd totally seen Bobby cry, and he'd totally cried himself.

"I don't want Victor to stop holding out on me for sex."

"I don't watch Harry Potter role play porn."

"I'm not in love with Cas."

Jo sighs, slumping back against her chair. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks rosy, and she shakes her head. "No shit, Sherlock."

"He _is_ dreamy," Charlie mumbles, her eyes growing starry as she stares off into nowhere.

Dean rolls his glass back and forth on the table, some of the alcohol sticking to the sides and clinging to the lip of the glass. "I screwed up," he finally says. "Haven't talked to him since our date."

"You took him on a _date_?" Jo raves, slapping her hands on the table and twisting her neck dramatically to look at Dean.

Charlie points at him with enthusiastic determination, her grin wide and interested. "Dean you should call him."

Jo sputters on his other side. "He shouldn't call him; he's _drunk_." She turns to Dean, reaching across the table and wrapping her hands around his wrist. "Don't call him, Dean. _Go to his_ _apartment_."

Dean nods, thinking about seeing Cas, telling him how he feels. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, I should." He's pretty sure he and Jo came up with some sort of rule a long time ago about not talking to people you have feelings for when you're drunk, but that moment seems so far away, so blurred, Dean can't be sure it really happened.

Besides, if it had happened, that was before Castiel. Castiel's worth breaking all the rules for.

"I'll call a cab!" Charlie calls out, a happy enabler of Dean's poor decision making, and several minutes later he finds himself squished in the back of a cab between Jo, who won't stop backseat driving, and Charlie, who's sent a text to Tessa, something along the lines of _I want to see you naked_ , and is now muttering a string of regretful curse words under her breath.

In the darkness of the cab, Dean's alcohol infused slap happiness slips away and thoughts of Stanford and Sam crawl back in. Somehow, he doesn't think drinking this problem away is going to be as effective as it usually is.

When they pull up in front of Rapture Records, Dean clambers out of the cab, shivering in the cool night air and berating himself for having left without a jacket. He stares up at the apartment above the shop and wonders if Cas is even going to want to see him. But Dean _needs_ to see him. He needs a body to lose himself in, to wrap him up in a warmth that settles deeper than any amount of alcohol could ever reach.

He wonders if Castiel even has any interest in fucking Dean now that he knows what a chickenshit Dean is.

He takes a shaky step towards the building as the cab pulls away with Charlie and Jo shouting encouragement out the window.

Outside Castiel's apartment, Dean pounds on the door, propping one arm up against the door jamb and resting his head against it as he waits. "Cas," he grumbles loudly, "I'm drunk, open the door."

When no answer comes, Dean strikes the door again with a loose but loud fist.

The door swings open, and Castiel is there, his eyes too blue, his chest deliciously bare, and his hair a sleep mussed mess. He looks gorgeous and warm, and they don't even have to have sex, Dean just wants to wrap himself around the other man and breathe him in until everything makes sense again.

Castiel narrows his eyes. "You smell like tequila," he accuses.

Dean offers him a lazy smile and pushes past him, stepping into the apartment uninvited. "S'cos I'm drunk."

Castiel hums, disapproval in the sound, which, _what gives him the fucking right_ , and closes the door behind Dean.

For a moment it's quiet, their eyes locked, mouths not moving. Dean feels like his skin is crawling with the way Cas is looking at him, so he reaches out and draws the other man in with a loose grip on his hips and seals their mouths together.

"I need you," Dean breathes into his mouth, hating how broken he sounds as the words come out. He drags his nails lightly down Cas's back, delighting in the shiver the action elicits, and licks along the other man's bottom lip.

"Dean," Castiel manages as Dean's lips move to his neck. He smells like tea tree with an underlying hint of cigarette smoke, and it's so inherently _Cas_ , Dean's hit with a wave of comfort just from the smell alone.

"Mmmmm." He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Cas's boxers and has every intention of dragging them down, but then Castiel's hands are on his chest and he's being pushed away.

"Dean," Cas says again, more firmly this time, "no."

"What?" Dean asks because this has never happened before, not with Cas. This is what they do, cope with life's shit through too much alcohol and sex.

"I don't want to have sex with you anymore, Dean. Not like this."

Dean's hands drop to his sides, and he stares at Castiel, feeling a whole hell of a lot like someone just punched him square in the gut. Wasn't it _Cas_ who was on Dean's doorstep, drunk as a skunk, and asking for sex less than a month ago?

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that, Cas?" Dean bites out. Castiel doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, but Dean feels bad almost immediately. He's the one who ruined whatever it was they had going between them in the first place. "Fuck," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face and collapsing onto the couch, "I'm sorry."

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he intones, "you're right. I am a hypocrite. And-" Castiel pauses to sigh. “And if you truly believe sex will get you through whatever it is you’re going through right now, I’m here. If that’s what you really want.”

Dean lets his head fall to rest on the back of the couch and closes his eyes against the dim light of the moon reflecting on the ceiling. It's quiet, silence thick enough to feel, and Dean heaves a sigh. Cas is right - the bastard - he doesn’t want sex, he just wants _Cas_. "Sammy's leaving me," Dean finally divulges, turning to glance at Castiel who's studying him carefully from where he stands.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's going to Stanford. I found the information packet he requested in the mail today. You know what hurts worse than him leaving me? Him not feeling like he could tell me."

Castiel moves to sit next to Dean on the couch, a light dip of the cushions that sends the alcohol in Dean's stomach sloshing. "It was just an information packet, Dean," Castiel points out, and yeah, Dean's told himself that several times already today, but it's the only one Sam's received and really the only school that makes sense for Sam.

"Nah," Dean says, "the kid's been avoiding me all week. He's going to California."

A beat of silence passes between them, and then Castiel is reaching across the couch and hooking a hand around Dean's neck, guiding him to rest his head in Cas's lap. His fingers card through Dean's hair, a soft tickle against his scalp that reminds him of his mom, and Dean's eyes flutter closed. "I'm sorry about Sam," Castiel offers quietly.

Dean's body is growing heavy, sluggish, and his brain is losing consciousness fast. He reaches his hand up and pulls gently at the hand resting on his shoulder, tangling their fingers together and letting out a sigh. "My mom used to do this almost every night." Normally he wouldn't share such precious information, memories of his mom too painful and too private to talk about, but Cas has this way of making Dean feel safe and it draws the words out unbidden. "I miss her," he finishes with a shuddering breath.

Though Dean's certain he's scaring the guy off for life – surprised he hasn't already – Castiel's fingers never still.

Dean's body melts into the soft cushions of Castiel's couch, and his chest aches with so many conflicting feelings: warmth, loss, contentment, unease, guilt... "I'm sorry for trying to have sex with you," Dean mutters.

"I understand,” Castiel's voice is low, soft, and it rolls over Dean like a warm current. “We can talk about it in the morning. Go to sleep." Dean shifts, turning over on his other side, and presses a kiss into the heated skin of Cas's stomach. He wraps an arm around Cas's waist and lets out an exhale as Castiel's fingers continue to slide through his hair.

"Go to sleep," Castiel says again, and so Dean does.

**:::**

Dean doesn't remember the last time he was hung over like this. There's an incessant pounding sensation behind his eyes and he has to piss so bad it hurts, but he knows moving even an inch will result in him spewing the contents of his stomach all over Cas's couch. Instead Dean lies very still, his face buried in the pillow Castiel must have slid under his head the night before, and breathes in the scent of Cas's shampoo. It's sentimental as fuck, and if anyone ever asked him about it, he'd probably deny it right to their face; but right now, the smell is comforting, and Dean needs comfort.

It must be early afternoon if the way sunlight is bursting past the dark curtains drawn on Castiel's window is any indication, and Dean groans against the light, wishing briefly he was in the confines of his own room where it's cool, and dark, and familiar. But then, his room doesn't smell like Cas, so the thought is gone almost as quickly as it had come.

After a minute Dean wills himself to sit, pursing his lips against the rank taste of tequila in his mouth and rubbing at his eyes until the fog begins to clear.

At his feet are the plaid button up he'd been wearing the previous night and his jeans, and he wonders if he took them off himself or if Cas had to help him. He vaguely remembers almost falling over when his foot got caught in the cuff of one of his pant legs and then the phantom feeling of Castiel's long, warm fingers curling around Dean's arm to steady him meshes with the memory, and Dean gets his answer.

_Real smooth, Dean._

On the coffee table is a tall glass of water that Dean goes for almost immediately, draining its tepid contents in four desperate swallows. Only when he's setting the empty glass back in its original spot does he notice the two painkillers Castiel set out next to it.

For a beat Dean dwells on the night before, dropping his head to his hands when he remembers crying to Cas about Sam and talking about his mom while Castiel ran soothing fingers through his hair.

It had been a very low point, a place Dean hasn't been to in months, and now to accompany the sinking feeling Sam's been planning on leaving for a while now, is the fervent guilt Dean feels for having come to Cas's in the first place. He should have dealt with things on his own.

Glancing at his phone Dean finds it's almost noon. He's missed a bunch of calls from Sam, and there are a string of texts from Cas that make Dean's stomach flip itself upside down.

_[8:05 am] I didn’t abandon you, I’m just at work. Downstairs if you need anything._

_[9:46 am] Sam wants to know if I've seen you._

_[9:48 am] You should call him, Dean. He's very worried about you._

_[10:00 am] And drink the water I left for you. There are painkillers too. You'll probably need them; tequila is the devil's drink._

Dean snickers lightly at Cas's last remark, shaking his head. For a moment he wonders if he should call a cab home, get himself straight before he sees Sam again, but then the image of the envelope from Stanford comes back to him, and Dean bites back a fit of anger. He's not ready to go home yet.

Standing from the couch, Dean sways slightly before getting his bearings. He stoops to pick up the two white pills and the water glass and pads into the kitchenette for more water. As he swallows the pills, Dean winces against the sharp pain that shoots through his skull. Cas is right, tequila _is_ the devil's drink.

After a wave of nausea passes, Dean shuffles into Castiel's bathroom needing a shower and time to think about everything that's happened in the past 24 hours.

As soon as he's under the hot spray, scrubbing off the stench of alcohol and the weariness of life that's crept into his bones, Dean lets out a long sigh. At some point or another he's going to have to talk to Sam. He wants to be happy for his brother, he really does, but when Sam hops off to Stanford, that's just one more person in Dean's life that's left him behind and Sam's the only immediate family he's got left.

The sting of being left alone is too prominent right now to let anything else in.

 

**\---**

 

When Castiel pushes his front door open and doesn't see Dean on the couch, he's almost confused. He was certain Dean wouldn't leave before he got home for lunch, but then he hears the muffled sound of the shower going and knows Dean hasn't gone anywhere.

The relief that accompanies that feeling is both strange and unexpected, but somehow not unwelcomed.

Castiel's been feeling a lot of strange and unexpected feelings since his date with Dean, things he's never felt for another person before, and it's thrown him for a loop he's not quite sure how to navigate.

All he knows for sure at this point is he's interested in Dean. Irrevocably interested.

In his kitchenette, Castiel starts a burner to boil some eggs for Dean and drops a couple pieces of bread into the toaster. He screws the cap off the coconut water he'd purchased at Grace Cafe before coming home and divides it between two glasses, pouring a bit extra into Dean's glass.

When the shower stops and Dean steps out of the bathroom a beat later, a towel wrapped precariously low on his hips and droplets of water leaving slick tracks down his neck and chest, a lump forms in Castiel's throat. He looks clean, the damn beautiful bastard, vulnerable without any of his makeup on or his all-black clothing, and for a moment Castiel takes in the features he's been missing. Things like how green Dean's eyes are without the dulling tone of eyeliner shrouding his lids, the constellations of freckles spattered across his shoulders...

                               

Dean stops short in the bathroom doorway. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

"Did your hair dye stain my tub?" Castiel wonders, turning his attention to the eggs boiling on the stove. When Dean had shown up last night, his hair was blue. Now it's void of all but his natural color.

"No."

"Did you use my soap?"

Dean shrugs and makes his way over to Castiel's dresser, pulling open drawers and digging through their contents. "That tea tree shit in the clear bottle?"

Castiel nods, trying not to openly gape as Dean's bent over, his ass in the air.

"It was the only stuff in there," Dean explains. "And seriously, you never heard of Irish Spring or something before? Goddamn, Cas, that crap is girly as all get out."

"There’s no such thing as ‘girly’ soap, Dean. And it's organic," Castiel snaps, moving to run cool water into the pot with Dean's eggs.

"Nobody needs organic _soap,_ for fuck's sake."

"Everyone needs organic soap," Castiel corrects, tamping down the urge to smell his soap on Dean's skin, take in the way it mixes with his pheromones and makes Dean smell more like _his_. "And why are you going through my dresser? Aren't you supposed to wait until I'm gone to snoop through my belongings?"

"I'm looking for something to wear, sweetheart. And don't you _even_ give me shit, you probably have half my closet in here." Dean rights himself, holding up the sweatshirt Castiel stole after their first night together. "Months, Cas. You've had this for months."

Castiel shrugs, avoiding eye contact, and begins to peel the eggs.

When Dean has pulled on an old pair of track pants, he settles into one of the chairs at the island and clasps his hands over the counter. "What's for lunch?" A cheeky grin has stolen over his mouth.

Castiel huffs at him, carefully ignoring Dean's handsome face, and places a bowl in front of him with three boiled eggs inside. The bowl is followed by the glass of coconut water, which is joined by a plate with toast and two bananas on it. He quirks a smile as Dean's face twists in disapproval.

"What the hell is this? You trying to convert me to veganism or something?"

"Clearly not," Castiel says coolly, drizzling raw honey over Dean's toast. "I've given you eggs. Vegans don't eat animal byproducts."

"Are you fucking serious right now, Cas?" Dean stares at the food, like it's laced with poison and Castiel wonders how much _actual_ nutritional value Dean's consuming every day. Probably not very much.

"Eat," Castiel instructs, "it will help with your hangover."

"Doubt it," Dean mutters, biting into one of the pieces of toast.

Castiel shakes his head and turns back to the stove. He makes quick work of frying up a pan of potatoes, mincing in bell peppers and onions, and dousing the whole concoction in hot sauce and liquid smoke.

When he joins Dean at the island with his potatoes and a side of cheesy eggs, Dean scoffs. "How come you get the good stuff and I get the rabbit food?"

Castiel swallows a bite of eggs. "Because _I_ didn't drink a bottle of tequila last night," he hedges, glancing over at Dean's food. Two of the eggs are gone and so are both pieces of toast. It doesn't look like he's touched the coconut water though, and both bananas are still in their peels.

"Eat a banana," Castiel insists, "or drink your water."

"It tastes weird," Dean grumbles.

"That's because it's coconut water, it's high in potassium, which I'm sure your body is severely lacking."

"My body isn't lacking anything," Dean retorts defensively.

Castiel snickers, "I'm sure it isn't."

They sit in silence for a beat, Castiel pushing his food around on his plate as thoughts cascade through his brain. He and Dean need to talk about what happened, but now that the opportunity is here, Castiel isn't sure what he wants to say.

"Have you spoken with Sam?" he finally asks, instead.

Dean grunts, shoving half a banana in his mouth so it's too full to speak.

Castiel rolls his eyes. At least Dean's eating the fruit.

It's quiet for a moment, Castiel's fork scraping against his plate the only sound in the room, and he reflects how strange it is to sit and eat with Dean without the heat of sex still hanging in the air.

A part of him wants this, wants Dean, something easy, something _normal_. But another part of him, a part that's loud, and angry, and clutching at Castiel with an icy grasp that's unrelenting tells him he can never have this. Normal just isn't in Castiel's repertoire.

"What did you mean last night?" Dean wonders cautiously around a swallow of banana. "About not wanting to have sex with me anymore."

Castiel sighs and sets down his fork, heart picking up a wild tattoo against his ribs. Knowing the question was coming hasn't made him any more prepared to answer it. For a moment he can't tear his gaze from his plate, his eyes glued to the remnants of ketchup and cheese clinging to the surface.

While his initial instinct is to bury his feelings, retreat into what is comfortable for him, he forces himself to speak. He _has_ to try.

"I've never dated anybody," he begins slowly. "I don't know how to do-" he waves a hand at Dean, " _this_. And being as close to someone as I've found myself being to you is-" he stops, shakes his head.

Dean is quiet, his gaze boring into Castiel.

When Castiel finally feels able, he looks up to meet Dean's stare, his eyes pleading for Dean to understand. "After our date I realized that maybe being close to someone isn't as impossible as I thought it to be. And I-" He pauses, breathes. This is almost too much, _Dean_ is almost too much, the way he's looking at Castiel, like Castiel is Important, like he's been waiting his whole life for something only Castiel can give him.

Castiel takes a steadying breath. "I don't want to continue pursuing an unhealthy relationship with you." Dean's eyebrow flicks up, his eyes wide open. Castiel can't tell whether it's fear or hope he reads in the other man's expression, and it's unnerving.

"What does that mean?" Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits, "not entirely. But not using each other for sex seems like a good place to start. I still want to be intimate with you, Dean," Castiel murmurs, eyes flicking up despite the heat in his cheeks. “I just- want us to be in a good headspace when we are. Or at least acknowledge it isn’t just sex anymore.” His body is heavy with guilt; he’s turned to Dean far more than Dean has come to him, but he’s willing to admit to his misdoings and be better.

"So, what, like a real relationship? Dates, and commitment, and matching sweaters when we're ninety? The whole nine?"

"I don't know if I'm ready for that," Castiel divulges. In truth, there isn't a word, no exact description, for what it is Castiel wants. If there were, things would be a whole lot easier.

"So... friends," Dean offers.

Castiel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully for a beat. "Friends," he agrees.

Dean nods, smiling around a wince. "Okay," he glances down at his plate, "yeah, friends. That's cool. We can do that, right?"

Castiel studies Dean's face, taking in all the beautiful details, his freckles, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks at Dean's lips, the plump softness of them, and the day-old stubble spattering his jaw. Dean is beautiful, yes, by any practical description, but there's also something about _him_. Something that makes him someone Castiel doesn't want to be without. Someone he trusts, for some godforsaken reason, and feels safe with. Whether they were meant to be friends or lovers or something else entirely, Castiel isn't sure, but he knows, deep down, Dean Winchester is supposed to be in his life.

"Yes," Castiel concludes. "Friends."

"Friends that have sex?" Dean tries, his face arranging itself into an endearing sort of mischievous anticipation.

Castiel huffs at him. "Dean," he growls in warning.

Dean lets out a laugh and raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, alright. Friends, with the only benefits being your absolutely sunny disposition in the mornings and my adorably good looks and out of this world cooking skills."

Castiel slides off his chair, collecting his dishes and carrying them to the sink. "I think you meant that the other way around," he intones.

Soon Dean is there, dishes of his own in hand, and he places them on top of Castiel's. "We can do this." He’s staring down at Castiel, his eyelashes thick, and his chest golden and warm. Castiel sways into his personal space, drawn to him like their bodies were created as two halves of a whole.

For a minute Castiel thinks he'll kiss Dean. He wonders what it would feel like to do it like this, so easy, no expectations other than the simple press of lips in the quiet of his kitchen, the world outside continuing like nothing else matters but the two of them. The urge is like a tangible weight on his shoulders, and he's close, so close, and- "I should get back to work."

Dean lets out a breath, his shoulders visibly slumping with Castiel's words. A twinge of remorse pulses through Castiel, his cheeks flushing as he pushes past Dean, and hating himself with every step. Dean looks like he's been kicked in the groin, a flinch pulling at his brows and a grimace forming on his lips.

"Feel free to stay as long as you like," Castiel offers, gathering up his messenger bag and securing it over his shoulder. He stands by the door, his hand lingering on the handle. "Lock up when you leave."

Dean nods, and they stare at one another for a beat more before Castiel is walking through the front door and closing it behind him.

He walks back to work with a roil in his belly. If this is what being friends with Dean feels like, he's not sure how long the friendship is going to last.

 

**\---**

 

It's nearly four when Dean finally leaves Castiel's apartment. He considers stopping in at the record store and giving Castiel a suitable goodbye, but he almost feels like the gesture would be unwelcomed, so instead he waits for his cab in the quiet of the apartment and doesn't give the record store a backward glance.

He feels jittery the whole way home, wishing he were driving himself so he could spend some time in the comfort of the Impala before seeing Sam. But he was the idiot that got too drunk to drive in the first place, so he figures riding home in the back of a cab is suitable enough retribution.

Sam isn't home yet when Dean arrives, its emptiness twisting Dean's gut in an uncomfortable sort of way. _This is what it's going to feel like when Sam's gone_ , he tells himself. _Too quiet, too big, too Sam-less._

For a moment Dean lingers in the doorway, taking in the heavy silence in the hallway that curls around him like a heavy black fog.

He needs noise.

Banging back through the front door, Dean storms around to the side of the house where Baby's resting in the shade, looking all woeful and neglected. He approaches her without hesitation and runs a careful hand along her black exterior. He really should go into the shop, see if Bobby needs any help today, but with all the shit going on with Sam, and now Cas declaring them _friends_ , Dean needs a few hours to himself, enough time to bang out all his problems under the hood of his own car.

For good measure he shoots Bobby a text, _Here if you need me today –_ the man has given him too much to be ungrateful – and then pops the Impala's hood and drags out his tool box and the small stereo meant solely for times like these.

The station is already tuned in to his favorite rock station, and as _Me Against the World_ pounds out of the speakers, Dean rolls his shoulders and gets to work.

There are about five layers of grease on his hands and a good amount of sweat clinging to the chest and underarms of the shirt he snagged from Cas earlier when Sam finally arrives home from school.

He only pays half attention as Sam wiggles his way out of Ruby's tiny red Volkswagen Beetle, shaking his head at her ridiculous vehicle. Sam should rethink who he's sleeping with based on that damn car alone.

Wiping his hands on a stained rag, Dean breathes deep, waiting for Sam to approach. His mind feels much clearer now, without the tang of betrayal so fresh on his brain, and he can't promise to keep his tempter intact, but he's at least ready to hear what Sammy's got to say about it all.

Sam doesn't bother going in the house first, loping over to Dean with his face pulled in sympathy so thick Dean's almost sick with it. Dean's hackles instantly rise.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbles, wiping down a wrench and tossing it into his tool box.

"Like what?"

"Like you just found out I got dumped by my high school sweetheart. I don't need your sympathy, alright?"

Yeah, temper definitely not in check.

"I'm not sympathetic, Dean, I'm just-" Sam heaves a sigh, looking away briefly. "Sorry," he finishes.

Dean ducks his head back under the Impala's hood, surveying his work. Everything is in mint condition, even better than maybe, but Dean needs somewhere to look other than his brother's face.

"Sorry about what?" he bites out. "That you decided on a school behind my back? One that's twenty-five-hundred miles away, by the way, or sorry that you didn't say a damn thing about it?" He tightens the cap on his radiator coolant basin and listens to Sam shift on his feet, his book bag rustling against his jacket as he does.

"Dean-"

Just thinking about it again has a new wave of anger crashing through him, and he pulls his head out from under the hood and fixes a glare on Sam. "What'd I do, Sam? What'd I do to piss you off to the point you couldn't tell me about this?"

Sam's frame crumples, hurt edging into his eyes. "Dean, you didn't do anything. I wasn't pissed off, I was just-"

"Just what?" The weight in Sam's eyes eases some of the venom out of Dean's voice but only some. He is not going to let Sam make him feel guilty for being upset. He isn't.

"I was scared to tell you," Sam finally mutters. His eyes are cast downwards now, and he looks small, like Dean could wrap him up in his arms and tuck Sam's head under his chin just like he used to do when Sam was a kid.

Dean deflates. All his hurt leeches out of him and is steadily replaced by that damn guilt he swore he wasn't going to feel. "Dammit, Sammy," he grinds out because he's an asshole and Sam has every right to want to leave. Dean would probably want to leave too if he was his older brother.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam offers again.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, resting against the driver's side door of the Impala. He doesn't even know what to say anymore. He doesn't want Sam to leave; Sam is the only real family he's got left. But this is big for Sam. No one in their family has completed college. Sammy would be the first. And to do so from Stanford Law? Dean can't think of a better place for his baby brother.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," Dean eventually corrects, feeling like the world's biggest asshole. "You shouldn't have to apologize to me for wanting something for yourself."

Sam sighs again, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder, and comes to stand next to Dean. "I should have told you a long time ago. I tried to a few times, but-"

"I shut you down."

"No, Dean. I couldn't. It just never seemed like the right time."

Dean runs a hand through his hair. It's quiet for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to cross the small space in the garage, bending to pull two beers from the mini fridge that rests against the wall opposite he and Sam.

Neither of them speak for some time. Dean twists the cap off his bottle and flicks it across the garage. It hits the cold pavement with a soft clink and is quickly joined by Sam's.

After a few sips of his beer, Dean breaks the silence. "I'm not mad about Stanford, Sam. If that's where you want to go then-" He pushes all of the air out of his lungs. "Then that's where you should go." The words practically crawl from his throat, scratching at his insides the whole way up. They're honest, but they're painful to say. The truth of the matter is he's more hurt than anything, and above all else, he's afraid of being left alone. But he can't tell Sam that. "I just don't like you keeping secrets," Dean finishes.

Sam scoffs around a swallow of beer. "Are you really gonna preach to me about keeping secrets, Dean?"

Dean shoots his brother a wicked side eye. Dean may have had a huge hand in bringing Sam up, but the moose’s sass came all on its own. "You wanna elaborate on that, Mr. Smart-Ass?"

Sam’s voice is thick with accusation when he responds, "When were you gonna tell me about Cas?"

Dean's stomach flops. He knew he was stupid to assume Sam had no idea what was going on between him and Cas. But admitting he'd gone and done something Sam had specifically asked him not to do, _And for the love of all that is holy do not try to sleep with him,_ seemed so much harder than pretending like Sam didn't know.

Dean says nothing, peeling at the soggy label on his beer bottle. What is there to say now that he knows Sam knows?

"Dean?" Sam prods.

Dean sighs. "Okay!" he shouts. "I fucked up, alright? I slept with Cas after you asked me not to. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I'm not apologizing for sleeping with him."

"I don't expect you to, Dean."

Dean's brain skids to a halt. "What?" He looks at Sam, studies the easy honesty written in his features.

"I don't expect you to apologize for sleeping with him. I can tell you care about him, Dean. You haven't cared about anyone in a long time. Not since-"

"Cassie, I know," Dean says with a shake of his head, "and look where it got me."

Sam frowns. "I thought you guys had a- _thing_."

Dean drains the last of the beer and tosses it across the garage into a bin of other empties. It clangs against the sides, rattling the other bottles, and then settles. "We did," he replies. "Until today. He shoved me into the Friend Zone and then dangled himself in front of me like a friggin' fresh slice of cherry pie."

Dean almost shivers at the memory of Castiel nearly kissing him in the kitchen earlier, an electricity thrumming between them that Dean can still feel.

"What?"

Dean rubs his hands over his face, smearing grease along his nose and cheeks. "Forget it. Bottom line is, we're not sleeping together anymore. The guy's got a lot of shit going on in his head, and I can't make heads or tails of it."

"That's not his fault, Dean."

"No, I know it's not. It's just gonna be real tough going from amazing sex to-" Dean makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, "nothing."

Sam stops mid swig and scowls. "Seriously, Dean?"

Dean snickers. He pushes off his car and starts tossing tools back into their respective places, grateful the conversation about The Hard Stuff is coming to an end. "I mean it, Sammy. _Amazing_. I mean you should see the size of his-"

Sam chokes on beer and ducks out of the garage with his hands over his ears. "I don't want to hear this!" he shouts, stomping back to the house.

When the front door slams behind him, Dean shakes his head, twirling his rag inside a socket. He still feels uneasy about Sam and guilty as hell about Cas, but he's also relieved to have everything out in the open.

At least Sam's not pissed at him for sleeping with Cas.

Now if he could just figure out how to be Castiel's friend without wanting to jump his bones every twenty seconds, Dean Winchester will be going places.

 

**\---**

 

 Being friends with Dean is easily one of the most terrifying things Castiel's done in a long time. Letting someone in, someone like Dean who could potentially care about Castiel just because, is strange, foreign in a way he can't seem to allow to happen easily.

He cares about Dean, more than he's cared about any number of people in his life, but he's also still protective of himself, guarded. There are some parts of himself he just can't share.

They haven't had sex in almost a month, since Castiel decided it was too complicated to sleep with Dean while trying to figure out his feelings at the same time. It hadn't seemed like a bad idea at the time, but without it, Castiel's been almost more anxious than normal, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Dean to realize Castiel is too difficult to be in any sort of normal relationship with and walk away.

And the urge to touch Dean, to kiss him with his eyes closed tight, and his heart wide open, is getting nearly insurmountable.

**:::**

Castiel is pressed into the corner of a booth with Dean at his side and a grinning Sam sitting across from them. Sam had submitted his application to Stanford earlier in the day, and afterwards, Dean had called for celebratory drinks at Shurley's.

Castiel is happy for Sam, he has no reason not to be, but the way Dean smiles at his brother, a little too tight to be genuine, gives Castiel the indication Dean still isn't dealing well with the fact his brother may be leaving in less than a year.

Dean is settled in close, one arm draped across the back of the booth, and Castiel leans into him, a firm press of arm to side, reassuring Dean he's there.

Across the booth, Sam smirks at them knowingly. He wants to say something, Castiel knows he does, but then Ruby is sliding into the booth and planting a messy kiss on Sam's cheek with a loud smooch.

"My boyfriend's gonna be a lawyer," she beams, her eyes a little too bright, and her grin a little too wide.

"Thought you two weren't dating," Dean points out.

Ruby huffs at him. " _Fine_ . My _not_ -boyfriend's gonna be a lawyer." She shoots Dean a fake smile, one that's laden with sass and tilts her head, pulling her brows down and her lips into an exaggerated pout. "Cozy?" she asks sarcastically, her dark eyes flicking between Dean and Castiel.

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean just smiles at her, the upward turn of his lips stretching across his whole face. "Like a bug in a rug."

Ruby scowls at the two of them, and Castiel quirks a smile, grateful for Dean's easy deflection.

Sam clears his throat loudly, his expression tinged with nerves. "I'm gonna get us another round."

Ruby stands, letting Sam slide out of the booth and then settles into his spot, toeing at Castiel with her boot under the table. He ignores her.

"Dean," Sam grouses, hovering over the table. "A little help?"

"You can't carry four drinks?" Dean grumbles.

"And fries too," Ruby chimes in, her smile sickly sweet as she bats her eyelashes at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes but stands anyway.

Castiel watches as Dean walks away. He feels cold and broody without the other man's heat at his side.

"So," Ruby says, sipping at the last of Sam's drink.

Castiel reluctantly meets her gaze. "So, what?"

"Things seem to be going well," she points out. Castiel frowns and Ruby continues. "I mean with Dean. He's stuck around even after you decided to declare yourself celibate. That must be a good sign, right?"

Though he's wondered himself many times why Dean has in fact not walked away, hearing Ruby mention it too makes the possibility of not having Dean in his life that much more apparent. "I don't know why he's still around," he mutters at the table top.

Ruby sighs, "Did it ever occur to you that maybe he actually cares about you, Cas? I mean why else would he have stuck around? He was already getting the milk for free."

Castiel drops his eyes to his glass and offers Ruby a slight shrug. It's not a foreign idea, Dean caring about him, but he just can't bring himself to accept it. What reasons has he given Dean to care?

"The one thing I do know is, you can't keep him at arm's length forever. That's a dick move, Cas, even I think so."

"I'm not keeping him at arm's length," Castiel protests, a deep frown forming along his brow. He and Dean are friends. They both know that.

Ruby quirks a brow, "Aren't you?" Castiel squints at her, shaking his head. "So if Dean were to get involved with someone, you'd be fine with it? Because you guys are just friends, right? So he's free to do whatever, or whomever he wants?"

At the thought of Dean being with someone other than him, Castiel's stomach feels sour. But as Dean's friend, is it his right to feel that way? "Dean is free to do whatever he'd like. He always has been," he finally says, hoping Ruby doesn't notice the words are practically choked out.

"Well," Ruby responds, "perfect timing then."

Castiel looks up to find Ruby’s eyes are cast towards the door of the bar, her lips twitching up in a smile. Castiel follows her gaze to a familiar face.

"What the hell is Casey doing here?" he asks darkly eyeing the brunette from across the room.

"I invited her," Ruby answers matter-of-factly, "I wanted her to meet Dean. Why, you got a problem with that?"

Irritation flares through Castiel. There's nothing particularly wrong with Casey, she's just always rubbed him the wrong way. The way she parades herself around like she's something special is incredibly tiresome and all too cliché for Castiel's liking. And besides why would Ruby have invited her here specifically to meet Dean?

It only takes Castiel a second to figure it out.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Ruby retorts, brow raised in innocence.

"Meddling."

Ruby shrugs. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Castiel. Maybe you can spell it out for me."

Castiel's mouth snaps shut as Casey approaches their booth, ratcheting Castiel's heart rate up to an eleven.

"Looks like I'm missing a party," she says sarcastically, greeting Ruby. She makes to sit next to Castiel but stops when she sees the glower on his face

"This seat's taken," he growls.

She balks at him. "Wow, Castiel, I'd forgotten how charming you are."

Ruby waves a hand in the air, like it will dissipate the contention between them. "Just pull up a chair; there's plenty of room."

"Or you could sit at a different table entirely," Castiel suggests.

Casey flips him the bird and drags a chair over from a neighboring table, turning it backwards and straddling it. "Where's college boy?" she wonders, blatantly ignoring Castiel's presence.

He ignores her right back, turning his attention to the glossy grain of the wooden table top, smoothing his fingers along the grooves and wishing Dean and Sam would get back with the next round of drinks.

And like an answer from above, the brothers are there, juggling drinks and appetizers, bickering about God knows what.

"Casey," Sam says, plopping a basket of fries in front of Ruby, "you made it."

"Said I would, didn't I?" She grins at Sam, and he offers her an awkward half hug as he settles in next to Ruby and sets two bottles of beer on the table.

As Dean reclaims his spot next to Castiel, some of the anxiety Casey brought with her eases out of him. Dean slides a glass across the table to him, leaning in close and muttering, "Jack and Ginger," with a light smile on his face, like Castiel's drink order is their little secret.

Castiel wants to lean in and kiss him, cup Dean's face with his hands and feel the week-old stubble scratch against his palms. He wants to bury his face in the crook of Dean's neck and breathe him in, letting Dean's scent wash everything else away. He wonders if, even after his declaration of Just Friends, Dean would let him.

When he realizes Dean is studying his face, he looks away, a flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. He offers Dean a quiet “thank you” and takes a hasty swig of the drink. The sooner the alcohol hits his system, the better.

"Dean," Ruby calls across the table, snagging his attention, "this is my friend, Casey."

The way Dean's eyes rove over Casey's form has Castiel's hands curling just a little too firmly around the glass in his grasp.

"Pleasure," Dean says, reaching out a hand.

Casey takes it, smiling at Dean all sultry and sex. "Pleasure's all mine," she purrs.

Dean leans back in the booth with a grin on his face, and suddenly Castiel feels foolish for ever thinking he could maneuver his way around a no-strings-attached friendship.

Some of the familiar darkness that had been easing out of him as of late seeps back into his chest, causing him to wish he were back home with a bottle of Jack, rather than just a glass of it, and side one of Young the Giant.

As the evening presses on, the only thing Castiel can think about is how both of Dean's arms rest loosely at his sides for the rest of the night.

~

By the time they're stumbling out of Shurley's, there's a low October wind in the air that sends a chill all the way through Castiel's bones. He wraps his arms around his chest, wishing he had brought a jacket. It's only a short walk to his apartment, but the night has left him feeling cold from the inside out, and the wind doesn't help ease that.

He watches Dean say goodbye to Casey, scowls to himself when Sam invites her to the Halloween party the Winchesters are throwing at the end of the month and decides to call it a night.

He lights up a cigarette and heads across the parking lot, rushing to get to the warmth of his apartment. He's not even half way when Dean is near his side, hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket, cringing against the cold.

"You gonna leave without say goodbye, sweetheart?"

Castiel doesn't stop walking, and Dean doesn't stop following. "I didn't want to interrupt," Castiel replies lamely. Dean huffs at him.

"Not a fan of Casey, huh?"

Castiel scoffs. "How could you tell?"

"You didn't say a damn thing all night; you just sat there and pouted into your drink."

"I wasn't pouting," Castiel grouses, shivering around a particularly large gust of wind. Dean shakes his head, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over Castiel's shoulders.

"I don't get you," he grumbles. "You wear big-ass sweaters in the middle of July, and nothing but a t-shirt at the butt end of fall. You trying to prove some kind of point to Mother Nature, or what?"

"I didn't anticipate it being this cold," Castiel admits. He slips his arms inside the warm sleeves of Dean's jacket and holds the urge to bury his nose in the fabric – where he'll smell _Dean_ – at bay.

They're in front of his apartment in no time, the old red brick a welcoming sight to Castiel's frayed nerves, and Dean reaches out a hand, stopping Castiel from hightailing it into the building with no more than a quick goodbye.

"You're coming to our party at the end of the month, right?" He tugs Castiel's half smoked cigarette from between his fingers and takes a long puff.

Castiel shrugs, forcing down a smile that wants to be seen. He's been planning his costume since the first time Dean mentioned the party almost two weeks ago.  "I might swing by."

Dean lets out a snicker. "Fucking coy bastard. You better come; my costume is gonna be awesome. I designed it specifically with you in mind."

Dean's smile sends Castiel's stomach fluttering, and there's that burning need again, to be as close to Dean as physically possible. Castiel forces himself to remain firmly in his own space.

"You should know I never half-ass my costumes, Winchester. I'm sure you and I have very different ideas of what 'awesome' looks like."

Dean flicks ash from the end of the cigarette to the ground with a shake of his head. For a moment it's quiet, Castiel fixated on the soft orange glow barely illuminating Dean's mouth. He can't see well in the dark, but his memory fills in the blanks well enough.

"I should get going. Sam's waiting for me," Dean finally says. Castiel nods, watching Dean's face intently when he doesn't move. There's a weird tension between them, not something angry, but not pleasant either. It eats at Castiel like an itch he can't scratch and for a beat he forgets anyone else but Dean exists.

Dean's body is taut, like he's holding himself back from something, and Castiel waits, eagerly, for him to snap.

He never does.

"Keep the jacket," Dean says instead, "I'll get it later."

Castiel sighs, nodding. "Thank you."

"I'll see ya, Cas."

"Goodbye, Dean."

Another second passes, eyes locked, wind brushing their faces in an icy touch, and then Dean turns and heads back for Shurley's.

Castiel watches him go with a lump in his stomach.

~

Castiel's been lying in bed for nearly two hours, his brain cranking thoughts around inside his head so incessantly the idea of sleep feels like an outright joke.

He can't stop thinking about Dean, or Dean and Casey, or Dean and _anyone_ , and the burgeoning need to know how committed Dean's been to their uncommitted relationship has Castiel grabbing for his phone and starting a new message to Dean.

It's nearly three in the morning, he doesn't expect a response, but he has to get the question out there before he explodes.

 _Have you been sleeping with other people?_ It's probably one of the less tactful ideas he's had in his lifetime, but once he hits send the message is gone and all he can do is wait.

Dean's response is almost immediate. **_What, since we started sleeping together?_ **

Castiel's fingers fumble over the keys, nervous for a response. _Yes._

He begins typing out a follow up message, one filled with words he doesn't mean _...don't have to tell me, ...none of my business, ...just curious, ...it doesn't matter,_ but his phone is buzzing again before the message is complete.

 **_No._ ** Followed quickly by, **_You?_ **

Castiel smiles down at his phone, re-reading that one little word and letting the meaning of it settle warmly between his ribs. _No._

Another message comes through, a simple ellipsis, and Castiel feels even more satisfaction than before knowing Dean is sweating it out on the other line. He types out his response, _No_ , and sends it with a pounding heart.

He may not know exactly what this means for him and Dean, but he does know he'll sleep easier with the knowledge he was the last person to breathe Dean's name into his skin.


	10. Chapter 10

The week of Halloween, Dean and Sam work non-stop to get their house decked out for the party. Most of their days are filled with stilted conversation, each carefully avoiding the topic of Stanford, and it has Dean on edge. But to Not Talk About It is the Winchester special, and so talk about it they don't.

Halloween night falls cold and dark. Their house is bustling with people, music weaving in and out of the small spaces between bodies, and he knows it's over the top of him, but Dean's volunteered to man the bar where he can see the moment Castiel walks in.

They're just friends now, yes, but after Castiel's texts asking Dean about his sexual conquests in the last few months, Dean's been sleeping a little less and analyzing a little more.

Castiel is, hands down, the most complicated person he's ever met.

"You've cleaned that glass three times already, Winchester," Jo points out as she comes to rest at Dean's side.

Dean looks down at the glass in his hands and then to the dirty stack next to him. It hasn't depleted since he started.  _ Shit _ .

"Just wanna make sure it's really clean," Dean offers weakly, setting the glass to dry and picking up another.

"You're useless when you're lovesick, you know that?" Jo shoulders her way between Dean and the dirty glasses and begins to help. Dean scoffs at her.

"I am not lovesick," he protests.

"Yeah okay," Jo responds, her voice mocking.

Dean takes the rag he's been using and snaps Jo in the ass with it. Mouthy little brat. She rubs at the spot, frowning, but doesn't retort.

For a moment, they're quiet, watching people trickle in – everyone but the one person Dean's counting on seems to have arrived – and cleaning up behind the bar.

After some time, Ruby approaches the bar, her friend Casey at her side. Dean eyes them as they order drinks from Jo and his lips curve into a half smile remembering how broody Castiel had become at the bar after Casey showed up. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say the guy had a bad case of jealousy.

"Seen Cas?" Dean asks over the thrum of music. He hates himself for asking, but there's no getting the words back now.

"Are you sure he's coming?" Casey responds, despite the question being directed at Ruby. "He doesn't play well with others." She studies Dean with her lips pulled in a thin smile and eyes glittering in the dim lighting. She's wrapped in a tight red dress tonight, sequined devil's horns perched atop her curtain of shiny dark hair, and her eyes are done up mysterious and smoky. She's all sorts of dark and exotic and maybe in a different time and place Dean could be attracted to her, but as it is he finds looking at her is about as interesting as looking at a dinner plate.

"He's coming," Dean grumbles.

"Don't be disappointed if he doesn't," Ruby intervenes.

Dean turns his attention to her, shoving her comment from his brain. Cas is going to come. He said he would. Needing a subject change, Dean asks, "What the hell are you supposed to be?" His eyes scan over her tiny black dress, high heeled boots, and eccentric green eye make-up, and he frowns.

Ruby rolls her eyes. "I'm a witch." She gestures to the tiny, black pointed hat that sits crooked on her head.  

"Oookay," Dean bites back. He looks back at Casey. "Devil, right?"

"Demon, actually," Casey corrects. Her gaze crosses over him like a physical touch leaving Dean feeling more than a little violated. "I like your costume though," she says.

Dean looks down at himself. If he's being honest with himself, he's feeling a little exposed without his usual garb. Aside from the black framed glasses that sit on his face, the beanie on his head, and the suspenders stretching across his chest and shoulders, he's severely lacking in his usual adornment. Instead of his typical, mostly black attire, he's dressed in a short sleeve t-shirt with a picture of Bob Dylan's face on it and pants that are so tight he fears for the welfare of his dick.

How Castiel ever feels comfortable in a pair of skinny jeans, Dean will never know. "Thanks," he finally answers.

"Are you a nerd?" Casey wonders.

"Hipster," Dean corrects.

"Cute." Casey pulls the tiny straw out of her drink and wraps her tongue around it, licking at the droplets of alcohol running off its slippery surface. Her eyes linger on Dean’s face as she does so, and the intent behind it is so obvious, so  _ cliche _ , it’s almost comical.

"I'm gonna get more limes," Dean announces, maybe a little more loudly than is necessary. Jo casts a glance at him over her shoulder.

"I just refilled them," she frowns, dropping a cherry in a white cherry vodka and pushing the glass across the counter.

"Can never have too many," Dean throws back, wiping his hands on a dry rag and shooting Ruby and Casey a pinched smile. He makes a hasty retreat from behind the bar and high-tails it upstairs where it's quieter and less crowded. He needs a second to breathe.

He's digging through the freezer for a bag of ice when the doorbell rings. He considers letting whomever is on the other side figure out all they gotta do is turn the handle and push, but when the door stays closed, Dean huffs, closing the freezer door.

"Everyone else just let's themselves in," Dean grumbles as he makes his way down the hall. "What asshole did we invite that needs the red carpet rolled out?" When he flings the door open though and sees Castiel standing on his porch decked out in his costume, Dean nearly pisses his pants because  _ holy fucking shit _ .

The guy is wearing nothing but black, and it’s like he was poured into the clothes they’re all so tight. His mohawked hair is streaked with blue, and even on the dim porch the navy of his eyes pops beneath the black opaque liner heavily framing them. The studded, leather jacket he wears matches a pair of riding boots that hug his thighs like a second skin, and a thin t-shirt stretches across his chest, falling comfortably over the skinny jeans he’s sporting. He’s completed the look with a chain and black lacquered nails.

In short Dean wants nothing more than to drag the guy into his bedroom and not let him out until he's well and truly wrecked.

Castiel, who's got a lit cigarette in his hand, takes in Dean's costume and blows out a plume of smoke before offering Dean a smirk.

"Hey there, Sandra Dee," Dean croaks as his mind wanders to the last scene of Grease (which Dean's only watched because of the cars.  _ Honest _ .)

Castiel drops the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the heel of his boot, and Dean is just  _ waiting _ for Castiel to purr, "Tell me about it,  _ stud _ ," all suggestive and dirty like Sandy does in the film. Instead Cas brushes past him and steps into the house saying, "Bob Dylan is entirely overrated."

Dean is almost disappointed, but he hasn't even closed the door yet when Castiel pushes in close to him and presses his lips right against Dean's ear. "Nice pants though," Castiel mutters, "you couldn't keep a secret in those things if your life depended on it." And that's more like what Dean was expecting.

Dean closes the door with a swift shove, his heart hammering and a grin alighting on his face. It takes all his will power not to grab Castiel's wrist and push him up against the door, to capture Castiel's lips with his own in a hungry, messy kiss.

He has never had the urge to completely ravish someone as badly as he does now.

Almost as if he can hear Dean's internal dilemma, Castiel snickers at him. "Control yourself, Winchester," he says smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt and giving himself a once over. The guy looks pretty damn proud of himself, and that's just irritating. And hot.  _ Goddammit _ .

Dean shakes his head and follows Castiel down to the basement.

They haven't even made it all the way around the corner when they're met with Ruby pinned against the wall, Sam working his mouth against her neck, a pair of cat ears sitting askew on his head. Dean's face settles into a deep frown.

"Get a room, you two, huh? You're gonna scare everyone off."

Sam pulls away and twists to scowl at Dean, his lips stretching into a smile when he sees Castiel. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Sam."

Sam's arms drop to his sides, and Ruby adjusts her dress and the hat on her head, calming her look back to something a little less abashed. Her eyes flick to Castiel, and he returns her gaze cooly.

"You think you're pretty cute in that get up, don't you?" she says, folding her arms over her chest and jutting out a hip.

"Some people seem to think so," he deadpans, eyes flicking briefly to Dean.

Dean adjusts his weight in a nervous shuffle of feet. "Your whiskers are crooked," he points out, flicking a finger across Sam's cheek and pulling everyone's attention away from him. It's one thing for Castiel to know he's got Dean all hot and bothered in his costume, but having it pointed out to everyone else is definitely another.

Sam shrugs. "My costume's still better than yours, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "Dude, I can't even take you seriously. You're a gigantic, clumsy  _ cat _ ."

"Whatever, Dean." Sam looks at Castiel. "I'm glad you came, Cas." And then Ruby flicks her hair over her shoulder, and the two of them are wandering off, probably to find another not-so-dark corner to be offensive in.

Dean turns to Castiel again, and his brain works hard to produce something other than  _ I want to kiss that beautiful fucking smirk off your face _ and fails miserably. There's something about Castiel dressed in punk garb that just gets to him. "You want a drink or something?" Dean finally asks because if he doesn't say something now, his body is going to obey his brain and that could only result in disaster.

Castiel quirks an eyebrow. "Trying to get me drunk, Dean?"

A heat rises in Dean's cheeks at the implication – normally drunk Cas equates to them falling into bed together – and he scoffs. "No. I just- there's nothing- I wasn't-" Castiel's biting at his bottom lip now, a smile playing behind his eyes, and Dean let's out all the air in his lungs.

"You fucker," he breathes. He hooks an arm around Castiel's neck and drags him towards the bar. "C'mon," he says, "lemme buy you a drink."

Casey has joined Jo behind the bar. When Castiel sees her, he stiffens marginally, but Dean slides onto the stool next to him easily and doesn't even glance in Casey's direction. Castiel seems to pick up on Dean's blatant display of showing where his loyalties lie and relaxes again.

When all Castiel asks for is a beer, something happy curls through Dean. Maybe he's reading more into it than necessary, but it seems like a good sign the guy isn't asking for hard liquor like usual. He looks more comfortable than he has in the past, and it allows Dean to feel more at ease, too.

~

The night passes in an effortless flow. Dean and Castiel team up to win several rounds of beer pong, and the Rubies start an impromptu round of karaoke at around half past midnight, dragging a drunk Sam up with them to sing a terribly off-key rendition of “Dead or Alive.”

It's nearly 2am when people finally begin to trickle out. At some point karaoke was switched out for Hitchcock films, and Dean finds himself wrapped in a blanket with Castiel curled against his side and snoring gently into his neck. And maybe it's because they're on the Love Sac that leaves little to no room for anything but cuddling, but then again, maybe it's because for some godforsaken reason there’s an unquenchable magnetism between them.

When  _ Vertigo _ ends most of the people still lingering at the Winchester household are either passed out or too drunk to drive home. Dean looks around the room, taking stock of who's still there. Jo and Victor are asleep on one end of the couch, Ash on the other, and Charlie and Tessa are tangled up together on the floor. Sam and Ruby seemed to have disappeared, but Pamela is there, sprawled out on the arm chair she didn't seem to leave for most of the night. Then there's Castiel, hugging Dean tight and absolutely dead to the world.

Dean wonders if he should call the guy a cab or let him spend the night in the Love Sac. "Cas," Dean murmurs after a beat, softly shaking Castiel awake. "You want me to call you a cab?"

Castiel huffs against Dean's neck and tightens his grasp around Dean's middle. "No," he grumbles.

"Okay," Dean chuckles and stops himself halfway to pressing a kiss against Castiel's forehead.  _ No, you idiot, _ he reminds himself,  _ just friends. _ He lies there for a minute more, reveling in the closeness of Castiel's sleeping form and then wiggles his way out of the other man's grasp. Really, he'd be content to leave everyone be and sleep in the oversized bean bag with Cas all night, but if there's one thing Dean Winchester is not, it's a shitty host, so he herds everyone to the second floor where there’s plenty of room with three empty bedrooms.

Castiel, however, he lets remain asleep.

With everyone situated upstairs, Dean carries an extra blanket back down to the basement for Cas. When he stands over the Love Sac though, the guy is nowhere to be found.

"Where'd that fucker go?" Dean mutters to himself, his brow pulled down in consternation.

Finding the bathroom empty, Dean climbs the stairs, concluding Castiel did end up calling a cab after all. It's his style, taking off when Dean isn't looking, and Dean enters his bedroom in an irritated huff, shaking his head and wondering what in the world Castiel has against saying goodbye.

When he flicks on the light though and spots a crop of dark hair barely peeking out from the covers of his bed, a smile creeps onto his face. So Castiel stuck around after all.

He turns out the light and steps over the pile of clothes Castiel's left on the floor, dropping his own next to them and padding over to his bed. When he throws the covers back to get in, it’s apparent, even in the dark, Cas did not spend time trying to find something to sleep in.

Not trusting himself to respect Castiel's boundaries in sleep, Dean pulls the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and covers himself with it instead, lying on top of the comforter Castiel's settled himself under. For a long while he lies staring at Castiel's sleeping form, his fingers itching to reach out and run along Castiel's bare back, to trace patterns into his shoulders while he sleeps.

Hating every bit of the word  _ friends _ , Dean finally shoves his eyes closed, rolls over, and falls asleep.

~

When Dean wakes up the following morning and Castiel is so obviously not in his bed, he isn't the least bit surprised. It sucks knowing Castiel is still okay with just coming and going as he pleases, not having any desire to be some sort of permanent fixture in Dean's life, but there comes a point when one has to admit maybe something isn't meant to be and let it go.

Dean contemplates not getting out of bed at all, sulking for a better part of the afternoon, but the smell of coffee and the chatter of voices has him sitting and running a hand over his face. If he doesn't get up soon, Jo and Charlie will be in his room within the hour begging for greasy breakfast foods and more beer. Alcoholics, all of them.

Dean splashes water on his face and pulls on a pair of jeans before he slumps out into the hallway. When his bedroom door slams behind him, Sam, who's seated at the kitchen table, and Ruby, who's seated  _ on _ the kitchen table both turn to look at him.

"Morning, Dean," Sam says all too cheery for Dean's sour mood. Dean scowls at him, and the smile fades from Sam's face, quickly replaced by a bitchface that tells Dean Sam is not dealing with his shit this morning.

"Whatsamatter, Dean?" Ruby asks with a smirk, "You look like you just got dumped."

Dean ignores her and continues into the kitchen only to stop dead in his tracks. Donned in a pair of red plaid pajama bottoms (that look strikingly familiar) and a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt (also immediately recognizable) is Castiel.

"Cas," Dean wheezes, all the air rushing out of him, "you're still here?"

Castiel shrugs. "I don't work today," he offers simply before taking a swig from the coffee cup he's holding. "But I can leave if you'd like."

"No!" Dean practically shouts before clearing his throat and starting again, "No. It's cool, you can stay."

Castiel raises an eyebrow, smiling behind his mug, and Dean rubs a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck.  _ Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen, he's subtle, he's smooth, he's... totally obvious. _

"So," Dean says casually, "who wants breakfast?"

~

While Dean cooks a carton of eggs, adding in cheese and any vegetables they have into the mix,

he sets Castiel to work on making toast. They work silently side by side for awhile, Castiel tapping his fingers against the countertop as he waits for the slices of toast to pop, but when Sam and Ruby wander off to the basement to start cleaning up, Dean flicks a glance at Castiel and smiles.

"You look good in my clothes," he points out, "you gonna steal those, too?"

"I haven't _ stolen _ any of your clothing," Castiel states as another four slices of toast pop up. He pulls them from the toaster and puts more bread in, pushing down the lever and finally turning to face Dean. "I've merely failed to return them."

Dean snickers, shaking his head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"If I do recall properly, you've offered me more than half the clothing I've taken anyway, pajamas, your jacket... Are you sure you don't have a clothes sharing kink, Dean?"

Dean's throat feels dry as he stares at Castiel. "You wish," he manages even though Castiel might be a little bit right.

Castiel smirks, "Whatever helps you sleep at night," he quips, using Dean's own words against him. Dean's mouth falls open, but no response comes out.

The kitchen falls silent for a while, both continuing to work, and after some time Castiel turns to Dean again, his eyes reluctant, his shoulders held in an apprehensive line. "You used a different blanket."

"Hm?" Dean asks, piling the cooked eggs onto a plate and covering them to keep them warm.

"Last night," Castiel expounds, "you used a different blanket to sleep with. Why?"

Avoiding Castiel's eye contact, Dean heaves his pan into the sink, on top of other dirty dishes, and starts the tap, filling the empty side of the sink with hot water. "Wanted to respect your boundaries," he explains.

"And what boundaries would those be?"

Dean shrugs, finally looking at Castiel. "I don't know, man. Just kinda feels like there are some now that we're not, y'know, in an 'unhealthy relationship' or whatever."

Castiel nods, his gaze trained on the toaster. "Maybe we should reevaluate those boundaries," he suggests after a beat.

Dean doesn't know how to respond. That could go one of two ways really, up or down, and Dean's not sure how much more down he can take. He wants to be respectful of Cas, wants to give the guy the space he needs, and he's trying his damndest, but at the same time, Dean can only manage so much back and forth before he gets whiplash.

"Okay," he responds carefully, "you wanna elaborate a little? ‘Cause I gotta admit, Cas, I'm kinda in the dark here."

Castiel turns to face Dean, chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Me too," he divulges.

"So..."

Castiel sighs. "So, I can't stop thinking about you, Dean," he states. "At one point I thought I wanted to," he continues, "but that didn't make sense either. Truthfully, you make me feel not so hopeless. I don't know why, and I'm scared but -" he breathes deep, "but I'd rather be scared with you than hopeless without you." His cheeks are pink with the admission, his expression flustered, but his eyes are firm with honesty.

Dean's never heard Castiel talk like this before. It's unnerving in the same way it’s grounding, and Dean's unable to stop the dopey grin that spreads across his face or the happy feeling zinging through his veins.

For the first time in a long time he feels like something makes sense.

Cas.  _ Cas _ makes sense.

A dozen responses flit around in Dean's head, but he doesn't say any of them. Instead he wraps both arms around Castiel's waist and maneuvers the other man until he's pressed up against the countertop, so he can kiss him properly. There's been want buzzing beneath his skin for nearly a month, and now, now that this is okay, Dean just can't help himself.

Castiel is a bit slow to respond, and for a beat Dean panics because maybe this  _ isn't _ okay, but then Cas wraps willing arms around Dean's neck and pulls Dean towards him until they're flush up against one another.

Dean deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into Castiel's mouth and swallows a moan from him before moving to kiss along the column of Castiel's neck.

They've never quite done anything like this before, with neither of them drunk, or high, or pissed off, and Dean is eager to learn this side of Castiel. The one that isn't pushing him away or so intoxicated he isn't thinking straight. Dean wants  _ this _ Cas all the time. This Cas in his clothes, in his kitchen, and willing just because.

"Is kissing within the new boundaries?" Dean asks against the crook of Castiel's neck.

Castiel chuckles, letting his head fall back against the upper cabinets when Dean gets more enthusiastic, sucking bruises into Castiel's skin. "Despite that question being a bit late,  _ God yes _ ," he breathes, dragging his nails down Dean's back.

Dean's certain if they go on like this for much longer, there's the distinct possibility Cas will end up getting sucked off right here in the kitchen; Dean is absolutely not above doing so, but the heavy shuffle of footsteps sounds on the staircase now and in about fifteen seconds they're going to have tired, hungover company. Reluctantly Dean moves from Castiel's neck back to his mouth where he presses gentle, slow kisses and rubs his hands up and down Castiel's sides. Castiel lets out a short, quiet whine that Dean's sure he didn't mean to allow, and Dean dips to nip at Castiel's ear.

"To be continued?" he murmurs.

Castiel nods, running his fingers through the short hair at the base of Dean's skull, humming his agreement.

~

Breakfast goes by quickly with ten very hungry, very hungover adults, and when Jo and Pamela try to beg more food off of Dean, he shoos them away promising to make pizza for lunch in a few hours.

When Dean and Cas are elbows deep in soapy water and dirty breakfast plates, Dean can't help how contented he feels. The more at ease Castiel seems around Dean's friends and in his home, the more at ease Dean feels.

When he's washed the last of the silverware and Castiel has stacked everything to dry, Dean offers Castiel a private glance. "So, uh- are shared showers within our new boundaries?" He knows his face is flushed from the question, which is downright ridiculous because it isn't as if he and Castiel haven't seen one another naked before, but this feels different. This  _ is _ different, and Dean wants to do things right this time around.

Castiel looks thoughtful, like he's honest to God making a pros and cons list or some shit in his head, and then responds, "I believe showers are amenable."

"You sure?" Dean asks, slipping his fingers into the waistband of the pajama pants Castiel is wearing and tugging him in close. He nuzzles at Castiel's temple, wrapping his arms around the other man's waist. It's been far too many weeks worth of no touching, and now Dean feels greedy for any amount of affection he can get.

Castiel grips Dean's shoulders and leans into the touch. "Yes," he mutters as Dean presses a kiss to the knob of his jaw. Dean smiles before sliding a hand into Castiel's hair and bringing their lips together in a heated kiss. He's forgotten all about everyone else and trying to maintain a semblance of decency in the kitchen. All he knows now is the feel of Castiel in his arms, clinging to him like he doesn't want Dean to pull away, and it feels so good that just for a moment there is only him and Cas.

The moment is fleeting. A few catcalls fill the room and Jo, being the obnoxious little shit that she is, shouts at them to get a room. Dean pulls away just in time to see Pamela elbowing her in the ribs.

"I don't know," Pamela says with a smirk on her face, "I kinda wanted to watch."

Castiel drops his hands from Dean's shoulders and stares very determinedly at Dean's chest. Dean lets out a long breath and drops his hands as well.    

"Assholes, all of you," he tells them, turning to leave the kitchen and tugging on Castiel's hand for him to follow. "I'm on strike now. No pizza for anyone but me and Cas."

And because they all know he’s lying, no one protests. 

In the bathroom things are decidedly less intense and significantly more awkward. They've never done this before, been intimate with one another without the aid of a little liquid courage, and suddenly Dean is extremely hyper aware of all his flaws. It's much easier for glossed over eyes and fumbling fingers to miss all the little imperfections one has but like this, with Castiel's gaze so heavy and focused on him, and the simple act of controlled dexterity, Dean feels especially exposed. It's easy for him to hide himself behind the extravagant get-up he wears, to blend into a sea of brightly colored hair and excessive piercings, to melt into a crowd of endless black clothing and tattoos, but in the starkness of his bathroom, with Castiel's gaze having nowhere to go but on him, Dean feels nervous.

He turns the shower on, and Castiel begins to undress, pulling his shirt off and letting it fall to the ground with a quiet rustle; Dean watches Castiel's every move and swallows hard. The guy is perfect in every single way. He's all long, lean muscle, dark, brooding features. He's probably the most beautiful person Dean's ever seen, but being naked around him has never really been a problem. Until now.

Dean has never been a particularly self-conscious person, per say. He knows he's attractive and hasn't had a problem getting other attractive people into bed with him, but this thing with Castiel is different. It's extended long past a one-night stand and has breached many boundaries of a casual hook up and now hangs somewhere dangerously close to full blown relationship. The whole mess has Dean feeling out of his element.

"Showers usually work best when all parties involved are naked," Castiel says dryly. Somewhere in the tangle of Dean's thoughts, Castiel has shed the pajama pants as well and is now staring at Dean, his expression half puzzled, half amused.

Dean feels his cheeks heat up and he works quickly to cover his tracks. "I was waiting for you to undress me," he says with a cheeky grin. The excuse has worked with Castiel before.

"I'd prefer to watch," Castiel shoots back, and the statement does absolutely nothing to calm Dean's nerves. He reaches for the button of his jeans, flicking it open before pulling down the zip, and his pants slide to the ground leaving him in nothing but his underwear. He steps out of them carefully, and he raises an eyebrow at Castiel. Castiel's gaze roams over Dean's shoulders and chest, his eyes tracing the light spattering of freckles, and then flick down to Dean's boxer briefs expectantly. "Off with them, Freckles," he says. "You take any longer and the hot water's going to run out."

He turns away from Dean then and steps into the shower.

When Dean realizes there was no scrutiny, no disapproval in Castiel's gaze, the tension eases out of his shoulders, and he lets out a breath. After that Dean makes haste in yanking down his underwear and joining a very naked, very wet Castiel in the shower.

At first, it's awkward. They stand under the hot spray staring at one another, drinking in how  _ different _ it feels to be together without wondering what it means.

One half of Dean wants to pin Castiel against the cool tiled wall, completely wreck him, desperate for a touch he’s gone far too long wihtout. But the other half of him wants to take his time, kiss Castiel slowly, let his fingers learn every inch of the man standing before him in an intimacy they haven't yet shared.

Castiel steps in close.

"Hey, you," Dean says.

Castiel runs steady fingers across Dean's cheeks, leaning in to kiss him briefly before pulling away.

Dean tangles his fingers in Castiel's wet hair, urging him close enough to kiss again. Their lips slide together languid and unhurried, and Dean begins to grow hard with Castiel's wet form pressed up against him.

Dean moves from Cas's mouth to kiss at his jaw, his neck, his chest and then finds himself staring right at the tattoo on Castiel's chest, the one he's not supposed to touch or talk about. He knows he should look away, act like he doesn't just itch to know what it’s all about, but it's in his face; and it's fucking gorgeous, and there's something about it that just screams at Dean to examine it. He studies the intricate shading and explicit lines of the tattoo for a good moment or two before Castiel tilts Dean's chin up.

"I don't like it when you stare," Castiel admits quietly. Dean's eyes instantly go apologetic.

"Sorry," he says, "just curious, you know? It’s gorgeous, kinda hard to miss."

It's silent for a long time, neither of them breaking eye contact. Dean's not sure what to say at this point, and Castiel looks like he's been torn right down the middle.

And things had been going so well.

"It's called  [ _ Functions of the Heart _ ](https://leonardodavinci.stanford.edu/projects/anatomy/heart1.jpg) ," Castiel finally allows slowly, carefully as if the words are painful to get out. "It's a piece by Leonardo Da Vinci. I was an art major in college and-" He pauses and looks down, heaving a deep breath before looking back up and finishing, "I was just drawn to it."

Dean nods. He's seen the artwork before, in a book somewhere, but it was different somehow, less melancholy than Castiel's seems to be.  Dean reaches out careful fingers and traces the jagged line that cuts through the middle of the tattoo. "And this?" he asks cautiously. He realizes that Castiel is opening up to him now in a way he never has before, and Dean knows if he prods too much, Castiel will clam back up in an instant, but he asks anyway.

Castiel breathes in sharply, as if having the tattoo touched causes him physical pain, and he wraps careful fingers around Dean's own, gently pulling them away from his chest. Normally this would be the part where Castiel closes Dean out, but he doesn't break eye contact. "Dean," he says, his voice is quiet, desolate, " _ I can't _ . I'm sorry."

Dean studies Castiel's face, delves into the pools of blue staring back at him. What he'd once mistaken as a tempest raging behind Castiel's eyes now translates to the anguish it really is. Castiel is miserable, and lonely, and aching, and Dean may never learn why.

"I'm sorry," Dean says gently. There are tears pooling in his eyes and he doesn't understand why, but they're there. He's no closer to finding out what haunts Castiel than he was when they first met, but it pains him to see Castiel looking so cracked open and raw the way he does. "I'm sorry," Dean says again, and it's choked off, masked behind the lump in Dean's throat. He's never felt empathy like this, but he feels it so tangible and alive it's startling.

"Don't be sorry, Dean," Castiel begs. He hasn't let go of Dean's fingers yet, and he tightens his grip on them pleadingly. "Please don't be sorry. I can't handle that, not from you."

Castiel's words are almost impossible to decipher, but they're choked off so desperately, all Dean can do is nod. "Okay." He still doesn't understand, but if Castiel is asking him not to be sorry, then he's going to do his damndest to try not to be.

Castiel's face relaxes marginally, and he finally lets go of Dean's fingers, tilting Dean's chin up again and fitting their lips together. It's soft and chaste, but Dean can feel the plead in the kiss, can taste the supplication of it. He responds in kind, pushing his tongue gently into Castiel's mouth and kissing back with no expectations. Castiel lets out a sigh, and that's when Dean knows they’re okay.

For a minute there's no talking, just the quiet slip slide of their bodies and mouths moving together, but when Dean's half hard dick nudges Castiel in the hip, Castiel looks down with a smirk. "Getting a little excited, are we?"

Dean grips tightly at Castiel's waist, his fingers digging into the other man's wet skin. "If you didn't notice," he rumbles, "I kinda have a thing for you being naked."

Castiel reaches down between them, curling a loose fist around Dean. "Oh, I noticed," he snarks. He gives Dean a light tug, and Dean groans, burying his face against Cas's collarbone and biting down gently as Castiel works him to full hardness.

When Dean reaches down to take Castiel in hand, the other man swats his hand away and curls his fingers around himself. "I'll do it."

Dean looks up, a wolfish grin growing on his face, and crowds Castiel up against the wall, curling a tight fist around Castiel's cock. "I insist," he breathes into Castiel's mouth. Cas goes lax against him, and let's Dean stroke him to a full erection.

Dean tugs at Castiel in long, fluid movements, quickly learning Castiel sober is just as impatient and needy as he is intoxicated. He's thrusting up into Dean's hand now, grunting out, "More, more, tighter, please," on every other breath. It's just a hand job, but the way the guy is begging for it, you'd think it was the best sex of Castiel's life.

Dean chuckles and ignores Cas's pleas, taking himself in hand as well and delighting in the way Castiel arches his back and lets out a moan "Ah-  _ Dean _ ," Castiel bites out, rocking up into Dean's hand, their dicks sliding together wet and slick.

Dean continues in sure, unhurried movements, his head buzzing with the slow burn building in his belly. They've done quick and dirty before; now he wants to take his time, drag out the inevitable high that will eventually come.

"Dean, are you just going to play with my dick all day, or are you going to actually get me off?" Castiel snaps after a moment.

"You're so goddamn bitchy when you're horny, you know that?" Dean grouses, easily falling back into the light-hearted banter that he's so used to exchanging with Castiel.

"Yet you keep coming back for more."

Dean shakes his head. He knows he's not going hard or fast enough for Castiel's liking, but he gets great satisfaction out of hearing Castiel get pissy about it, so he does nothing to change his pace.

It takes all of a few seconds before Castiel realizes he's going unsatisfied. "Winchester, you asshole," he growls, "I'll do it myself, so help me-" The last word comes out a gasp as Dean tightens his grasp and twists on the next upstroke. After that Castiel has no reason for complaint.

Dean's getting closer now, and he speeds up the movements of his hand, rubbing their cocks together with more determination and reducing the other man to incoherent babbling, "Dean," being the only word he can make out.

He focuses on Castiel's face as the man nears completion. His eyes are screwed up tight, his Adam's apple bobbing around his deep swallows, and Dean nearly leans in and closes his mouth over it. But then Castiel's body stiffens, and the hot spurt of his come is hitting Dean's stomach.

Dean fixates on Castiel as he orgasms, watching as his mouth drops open and reveling in his fingers digging into the fleshy skin of Dean's biceps. It isn't the first orgasm he's ever pulled from Cas, but this one feels more satisfying for some reason. It feels more real.

Dean's breathing is erratic now, and he tugs on himself one more time before he spills all over his hand, dropping his forehead to rest on Castiel's shoulder, breathing in and out heavily as he rides out his orgasm.

Warm hands settle on either side of his face, and Castiel pulls Dean's head up to kiss him deep and lazy.

"You're not gonna fall asleep in the shower, right?" Dean quips when they pull away. Castiel's eyelids are heavy, and his body is pliant.

Castiel scowls. "Of course not." He reaches for Dean's soap and squirts a generous amount into the palm of his hand.

"I never know with you, baby," Dean points out. "You always crash right after. Don't know why this'd be any different."

Castiel lathers up the soap in his hands before smoothing them along Dean's shoulders, running them down his chest and up his neck. "This smells like you," he states quietly, ignoring Dean's comment, watching his own hands move over Dean's frame.

Dean smiles. "It is  _ my _ soap."

Castiel sighs. "Do you always have to run your mouth, Dean?" His hands are sliding over Dean's ass now, giving it a gentle squeeze, and Dean sways on his feet, nearly unable to keep himself upright.

"Would I be as charming if I didn’t?"

Castiel's hazy blue eyes flick up to meet Dean's gaze, and he pushes in closer, kissing Dean softly. "Hush," he mutters.

Dean kisses back, "Yessir."

After their shower, the two of them pad into Dean's bedroom. Dean smiles at Castiel when he's closed the door behind him, taking in the other man's disheveled appearance. From the soft spot behind his ear to just above his sternum, Castiel has a spattering of hickeys that Dean can't say he's entirely ashamed of. It's a good look for him, wet and tousled, and Dean mentions as much as Castiel drops his towel and begins to dry himself off with it.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Winchester," Castiel mentions, eyeing what must be a darkening bruise on Dean's neck.

Dean shoots Castiel a crooked smirk. "Guess we'll match then."

Castiel hums his agreement, pulling on some boxers (out of Dean's drawer,  _ motherfucker _ ), and tossing his towel into a corner before pushing Dean down onto the bed.

"Don't I get to put clothes on?" Dean asks as Castiel arranges him in the middle of the mattress. He swipes away a stray drop of water that runs down from Dean's hairline and shakes his head.

"No."

"You're so fucking bossy."

"I'm sleepy," Castiel counters, as if that gives him reason to sprawl himself out on top of Dean. He pushes his face into the crook of Dean's neck and tucks his arm along Dean's side.  

"Seriously, Cas," Dean grumbles pulling the comforter over them, "right on top of me?"

Castiel yawns in response and places a hand gently on Dean's neck, rubbing slow, tired patterns along Dean's jaw with his thumb. "I missed being close to you," he admits, his voice growing thick.

Dean stills at the words, letting his hand rub absently over Castiel's ribs as the other man's admission curls contentedly between Dean's ribs. "I missed you, too."

On top of him Castiel's breathing evens out, becoming long and deep, and Dean knows he's fallen asleep. He's not particularly tired himself, but he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, here's Da Vinci's art, Functions of the Heart. Castiel's is the portion on the left. 
> 
> And then [here's](https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/18mBZI45gXQ9lp2hfQeCdo7kpR71R6qgmF1VhtH7YtG0/edit?usp=sharing) a very rough idea of what Castiel's tattoo looks like with the EKG markings on it. VERY ROUGH. My skills are sub-par at best.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: PTSD related flashback.

He's alone, running from a nameless shadow, the same phantom nightmare that's always there when he closes his eyes. The sky arcs high above him and crashes down behind him in a thick, suffocating curtain of ebony, and everything blurs together in varying shades of grey.

Gnarled trees spur on around him, their branches reaching out for him as he passes, their bark charcoal and eerie. The ground beneath him, ash and dust, disappears after him as he runs, swallowed whole by the silence behind him. His eyes scan the horizon in the distance for the slice of color he knows will be there. It always is, taunting him, beckoning him, yet always remaining just out of reach, but he continues to run towards where he knows it will be. If he doesn't, he'll be too late.

Sweat is pooling at the small of his back now, on the insides of his thighs and all along his neck. It drips down his long mess of hair and into his eyes, and he blinks the salty water away. It's a split second, the beat of a wing, but that's when he sees it, the flash of red and blue that echoes its presence through the darkness like some twisted sort of beacon.

Castiel pushes on.

His lungs are aching, threatening to burst open on every other breath, and his muscles are screaming in agony. His body was not made to run like this, but Castiel knows no other options, so he doesn't stop. The closer he gets to the flicker of red and blue, the further away he seems to be. He's not going to make it, he knows this now, can feel the familiar ache of loss creeping into his chest, but stopping is not an option. He runs, and runs, and runs until his heart pounds wildly in his ribcage, a warning that it's being pressed beyond its limits, but the swirl of red and blue are still in the distance and Castiel refuses to stop.

The closer he gets to the lights, the louder the world gets. An erratic heartbeat, not his own, and the sound of electricity punching through something solid, something human, fills his ears, crashes against his skull in vociferous waves. He tries to scream, to call out to Them, but no sound comes. Another bolt of electricity reverberates through him, another, and another until everything goes silent. It's deafening and settles around him like a heavy cloak, and he stops, his breath caught in his throat, and waits.

A single, shrill, steady beep cuts through the air. It slices at his chest and creeps beneath his skin turning everything to ice. Castiel falls to the ground, defeated, anguished, and the world closes in on him, swallowing him as if he were dust on the wind, but even that is not a relief.

Castiel wakes up gasping for breath.

He's lying on his side, the sheets pooled around his waist, and for a moment he doesn't recognize where he's at. The room he's in is dim but not dark, nothing compared to the nightmare, and there's a solid weight next to him.  _ Dean _ , he remembers. Somewhere in the last hour or so he's rolled off Dean, but his body still feels heavy and lethargic and he can't breathe. He curls himself into a ball and tries to pull air into his lungs and push it out again, but it's too hard, he's too tired.

"Cas?" Dean's voice cuts through the struggle like a warm blanket, and then Castiel is being pushed into the mattress,  Dean's face above him, his eyes wide with concern.

"Dean," Castiel gasps, reaching above him. His hand falls back to the bed before ever reaching Dean's face, and he coughs spastically, his lungs burning like they've never tasted air and his head pounding. Dean sits next to him and gently pushes Castiel into a sitting position, rubbing soothing circles along Castiel's upper back and gripping tightly to his arm with a free hand.

"You’re hyperventilating, man, you gotta relax,” Dean commands. “Breathe with me.”

Castiel nods and brings his knees up so he can rest his head against them while he wills his body to settle and match Dean’s breathing. It takes a few minutes before his muscles will relax, but slowly and surely his lungs begin working properly and the tension built up in his shoulders and neck starts to ease.

Dean continues to mutter words of encouragement and comfort in the background, breathing in and out in tandem with Castiel until he finally raises his head and looks at Dean. Dean’s eyebrows are raised in alarm.

"You okay?" he asks. Castiel nods. "You scared the shit outta me."

"It was just a nightmare," Castiel explains tiredly, even though it's never been  _ just _ a nightmare. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, Cas, just-" Dean pulls in a shaky breath, " _ fuck _ , I didn't know what to do."

Castiel nods again, but his body is too tired to form any type of response other than that. He slumps forward against his knees again and feels Dean leans off the bed next to him, coming back with one of their towels from earlier. He gently pulls Castiel up and swipes the towel across his forehead, wiping away the cold sweat he hadn't realized was there.

Dean's hand has returned to his back now; it's a warm, comforting weight moving back and forth in a hypnotizing motion, and Castiel thinks if he focuses on that and only that he can relax a little more. Before he knows it, he's being lulled back to sleep.

"You sure you're okay?" Dean prods quietly.

"Dean, please," Castiel mutters, his voice feels thick, and he doesn't want to think anymore.

"Okay, sorry, just making sure."

"I'm just tired."

"Then come back to bed," Dean says with a gentle hand on Castiel's side. Castiel sits straight and finds Dean's eyes with his own. They stare at each other silently, Dean's eyes flicking back and forth, searching Castiel's for answers, and Castiel's doing all they can to stay open. "What do you need?" Dean asks.

"You," Castiel mutters. Dean nods, pushing Castiel back into the mattress. Rolling him onto his side and brushing his lips across Castiel's neck and down his spine, Dean fits himself behind Castiel, his chest pressing firmly against Castiel's back and works an arm around Castiel's waist. He rests a hesitant hand on Castiel's chest, right over his tattoo, and Castiel finds it doesn’t bother him. He links his fingers through Dean's and breathes deeply, gathering any vestiges of calm that may still be available for his taking, and finally lets his eyes fall closed again.

Between one breath and the next, Castiel slips into a deep sleep again, this time no nightmares are there to meet him.

~

Castiel's sure he's probably only been asleep for an hour or so. The light in the room hasn't dimmed much at all, and his body feels rested enough to properly wake up. He's still wrapped up in Dean, the sure line of his body keeping Castiel grounded and steady; he's tempted just to close his eyes again and give into sleep, but there's the brush of a nose along his neck and the gentle press of lips on his shoulder, all of it setting his skin on fire. He rolls onto his back and Dean maneuvers himself to accommodate the change in position, propping himself up on an elbow and smiling down at Castiel.

"Hey," he says.

"Hello," Castiel responds.

"No more nightmares?"

Castiel shakes his head, "No more nightmares."

"Good," Dean mutters, and then he bends down and fits his mouth against Castiel’s, their lips moving slowly, neither pressing for more than just a kiss.

"What time is it?" Castiel's got no sense of what's up or down or how long he was out, and he's beginning to feel like he's overstaying his welcome, the need to be surrounded by his own four walls hitting him sharp and demanding.

Dean runs soft fingers across Castiel's chest and torso in dizzying patterns, his nails barley grazing skin, and shrugs his shoulders. "Dunno, three, four maybe."

Castiel's eyes slide closed, and he nods, losing himself in the distracting feel of Dean's fingers skating across his skin. He may want to be at home, in his own environment, but Dean, Dean could come. And he could keep scratching and tickling just like that.

Castiel doesn't realize he's lost consciousness again until Dean chuckles from somewhere above him. "Not falling asleep again, are ya, Edlund?" he asks.

"Mmmmm."

"You sleep more than anyone I know, you know that? What, were you a cat in another life or something?"

"Meg sleeps significantly more than I do," Castiel retorts. His brain and his mouth are barely making a connection.

"Doubt it," Dean mutters before stating more loudly, "How 'bout you open your eyes and look at me." Castiel hates the suggestion, but he blinks his eyes open anyway and looks up at Dean. "You hungry?" Dean asks when Castiel's attention is finally focused on him.

"Perhaps."

"I said I'd make pizza, but we need to go grocery shopping first. Because I gave you an amazing handjob earlier today, you get to come with me."

Castiel may not know a lot of things in his current state of incoherence, but he does know he has absolutely no desire to go grocery shopping. "I think you may have confused the word 'amazing' with the word 'decent,’" Castiel retorts. "And why don't you just order pizza?"

"Because mine is better," Dean answers simply.

Castiel sighs. "I'm not going to get out of this, am I?"

Dean shakes his head, "Nope."

Castiel lets out a groan and tries to punch Dean in the stomach. He's blocked by Dean's quick hands and kissed until he's breathless as a result.

~

On their way to the grocery store, Castiel flips through Dean's cassette tapes with a disdainful scowl. The man has absolutely no variety - all classic or hard rock - and nothing of much interest to Castiel. He knew they had very different tastes in music, but Dean's is downright ancient.

"Do you listen to anything that doesn't have redundant, tiresome guitar solos? Or perhaps bands that have released new music in the last ten years?"

"When was the last time the Smiths had a new release again?" Dean shoots back.

Castiel glowers at him. "The Smiths are timeless."  

"Name one band in that box that isn't timeless," Dean challenges.

"That would require me to look through your poor choice in music again, which isn't going to happen." Castiel glances out the window and watches the scenery pass by. There really isn't much to look at in this part of town; it's all old buildings in desperate need of restoration and factories belching thick black smoke into the air, tingeing it grey and painting the town smoky and tired. He turns back and looks at Dean, "And cassette tapes, Dean? Really? And you say I'm hipster."

"If you'll notice," Dean says pointing to the dash and speaking slowly as if Castiel is a child, "she only has a cassette player. Besides, makes it easy for me to control the music in here. Nobody else uses them anymore therefore my music is the only music we can listen to."

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, I have diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The fact that I find your obsession with this over the top should indicate you might have a  _ problem _ ."

"You're the one who brought it up. And I'm not obsessed, just particular."

"We'll see about that when I get my hands on some cassette tapes of some of  _ my _ music."

Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Listen, Cas, it’s real simple: driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

"Shotgun withholds sex until driver comes to their senses and realizes how irrational they're being." He says it with his face turned towards the window, his voice even and casual, like it's not a threat, but when Dean lets out a loud sigh, Castiel smiles to himself.

"You're a real pain in my ass, you know that?" Dean finally asks.

Castiel turns and beams at Dean. "I know."

~

The grocery store isn't as grungy as Castiel had anticipated. It's located in a more central part of town, and there are suburban families milling about with more minivans in the parking lot than anything else.

Dean parks the car and Castiel follows him into the store. As Castiel pushes the cart around, Dean is never far from him, guiding Castiel around the store with a hand on his back or fingers curled around his wrist. He kisses Castiel in the frozen food section when Castiel complains about being cold and nuzzles at his neck while Castiel stares at cans of olives and tries to decide which ones hold the most nutritional value. It's interesting, getting to know Dean outside of the bedroom; there are so many quirks Dean has or habits he keeps that Castiel never expected from him, but all in all, Castiel cannot deny that he likes the man Dean Winchester is.

Dean being touch starved is one of the things that's taken Castiel by surprise, but in a way it also makes sense.

"You are such an octopus," Castiel states finally pulling a can off the shelf.

"You don't like me touching you, Cas?" Dean responds with a smile.

"It's an adjustment," he admits dropping the can of olives into the cart. He wants to be with Dean, he does, but having never had someone like Dean in his life before, never having had to give himself to another person, Castiel is a bit caught off guard at how much of himself is required.

Dean turns more serious then, seeming to realize Castiel isn't being sarcastic, "What does that mean?" There's no anger in his tone, only sincere curiosity, but Castiel can feel his hackles rising.

He looks up at Dean and sighs, "It means I've grown accustomed to being alone and this-" he looks down at himself in Dean's clothes, at the grocery cart between them, and Dean’s close proximity. "This is going to take some getting used to."

"Do you like being alone?" Dean asks quietly.

Castiel stays quiet for a minute; it's not that he wants to be evasive, it's more the fact that they're standing in the canned goods section at the grocery store with soccer moms maneuvering around them to get to the Campbell's soup and store staff unloading boxes a few feet down from them. "I used to think I did," he finally offers. "In the past it was easier. There's no one to ask questions you don't want to answer when you're alone."

Dean nods. Whether he understands or not, he doesn't pry, and it's one of the many reasons Castiel knows Dean is good for him. No matter how long it took him to figure that out.

"If we ever need to slow down, all you gotta do is say so, okay?"

Castiel nods, pecking Dean on the lips, grateful for his willingness and patience. "Okay."

They head for a different aisle, Dean stopping to pick up pepperonis, and what little tension had risen between them eases quickly.

"Will you eat these?" Dean asks, holding up the package of pepperonis.

Castiel scrunches his face in protest, "I don't eat processed meat," he states.

"Oh, really, princess? And what do you think was on that pizza you made  _ me  _ eat? The Big Piggy or whatever?"

Castiel shrugs, intently studying something other than Dean's face. "I made an exception that night. And if I recall accurately – which I know I do – you  _ liked _ the ‘Big Piggy or whatever.’"

Dean scoffs, shaking his head and dropping the package into the cart. "I'm never gonna figure you out, am I?"

"Probably not," Castiel offers with a cheeky smile as he pushes the cart past Dean and heads for the produce section.

~

Out in the parking lot Dean opens the trunk to the Impala, and Castiel begins handing him the grocery bags. There are enough ingredients to bake enough pizzas for a small army, and as he's handing over the bags, Castiel wonders how often Dean does this sort of thing for his friends.

When Castiel is pulling the final two bags from the cart, a fire truck blows past the parking lot, sirens wailing, lights flashing, and Dean's head snaps up and towards the sound. Castiel tries to hand him the bags, but Dean's sole attention is on the truck barreling down the street and making a hasty retreat around the corner, his eyes transfixed like it's the most exciting thing he's seen all week. The sound and the speed make Castiel's head spin a little, dragging his nightmare back up from where he’d buried it.

"Dean."

The fire truck is out of sight now, and Dean looks at Castiel. "Sorry." He takes the final bags from Cas and puts them in the trunk.

Castiel studies his face intently. "What was that all about? Do you have a kink I should know about?"

Dean glances towards the corner the truck turned down then shuts the trunk, "Uh-" He looks at Castiel, his face guarded.  He's quiet for a moment, shoving the cart in the direction of the cart rack in the next stall over. "I wanted to be a firefighter when I was a kid," he finally offers. He's leaning against his car, fiddling with his keys like he's embarrassed, though Castiel can't figure out why.

"And now?" he wonders, squinting against the sun.

Dean sighs, patting the roof of his car. "It's complicated."

Castiel nods. He understands Complicated; that part of your life you don't know how to talk about, so you never do. "Okay," he replies.

Dean looks at the ground. "Yeah," he mutters, then he turns and heads for the driver's side door.

Once in the car Dean doesn't immediately start the vehicle. The keys are dangling from the ignition and his hands are curled around the steering wheel, but he just sits staring out the front windshield.

Castiel waits.

"My mom died when I was four," Dean begins, "house fire, twenty years ago tomorrow actually."

Castiel's chest feels tight, his heart beginning to race. "You don't have to tell me this, Dean."

Dean runs his fingers along the horn of the steering wheel, his face pulled into a melancholy pout. "I want to," he fixes his eyes on Castiel. "Been meaning to tell you anyway. And it's a part of me, kinda feels like you should know. If that's alright with you."

Castiel nods, not knowing whether he can bear the weight of Dean's past or not, but willing to try.

Dean looks back out the window. "After Mom died it was just me, and my dad, and Sam. My dad did the best he could, raising two kids on his own, but he was never really the same after my mom died. He started drinking too much. Sure did love his alcohol." Dean says it with a humorless smile. "I think it helped him forget. But I never forgot that night. Sometimes I can still feel the heat on my skin, and the smoke creeping into my lungs." Dean shudders, and Castiel doesn't know whether to reach out and offer a calming hand or leave him be.

"Firefighters saved my life that night, my dad and Sammy's too, and it just kinda made sense, you know, that that's what I would do when I was older. But they couldn't save my mom, and I think my dad was bitter about that. When I told him I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up, he told me nobody else in his family was dyin' in a fire and that was the end of it."

"Dean," Castiel breathes, because he doesn't know what else to say. He's always known he isn't the only person in the world that's been hurt, but somewhere along the way his own personal struggles clouded everything else and inhibited him from realizing other people, even some that were right in front of him, were hurting too.

"I was gonna do it anyway," Dean continues. "I was just biding my time, being the blunt little instrument my daddy wanted me to be. Anyway, we spent a lot of time moving around, Dad held odd jobs all over the country, and Sam and I attended school where and when we could. I think Dad thought he could run from what had happened, but he always ended up in the same place in the end: passed out with a half empty bottle of tequila in his hand.

"When I was fifteen we moved in with Bobby, and we finally had somethin’ stable. Sammy and I were finally able to go school like normal kids, and I started volunteering at the station in town. It was mostly just grunt work, but the captain was a cool guy and I was happy."

Castiel feels the impending  _ but _ like a tangible weight on his shoulders, and he already feels like he's been hit with the intensity of it.

"But Bobby and Dad had an agreement: Dad would get sober, and we could stay with Bobby while he did it. Bobby even offered to put Dad through rehab 'cause we didn't have the money and I could never get anything more than part-time, minimum wage. My dad refused, said he could do it on his own, but he was just too sick. About a month or so later, he and Bobby got into it, and Dad packed us up and we left in the middle of the night. He and Bobby didn't talk to each other again for a long time. Bobby always checked in with me, but Dad was pretty adamant about staying away.”

Castiel reflects on his own childhood, Naomi's incessant management of his life, never giving Castiel even an inch, and though their lives were vastly different, he sees the similarities between he and Dean. Dean's father was addicted to alcohol, Castiel's mother was addicted to making sure she had nothing less than a perfect child.

“Anyway,” Dean resumes, “obviously when we left I couldn't be at the station anymore. And I ended up having to drop out of school a couple years later, so I could take care of Dad, too. During that time, Bobby was more of a father to Sam and me then Dad was, even though we weren't even around. He was the one who let us come back almost five years later, give my dad a second chance, he was the one who pushed me to get my GED and sign up for college classes. I was gonna major in Fire Science, finally pursue a career.”

"And then the accident happened," Castiel supplies, knowing the rest. Dean had given him snippets of his life all those months ago at Shurley's, Sam too, not long after, Castiel just hadn't realized how tragic the whole story really was.

Dean looks up at Castiel, eyes wide and confused. “How'd you know about that?” His voice goes eerily quiet.

Castiel feels cold all over. He'd forgotten Dean didn't know he knew. “I only know there was a car accident and that you were there. Sam-”

“Fuckin' Sam,” Dean snaps. “You won't tell me a damn thing about yourself, but Sam will tell you everything about me.”

“Dean,” Castiel offers gently, a hand on Dean's arm. “He didn't tell me everything. And you don't have to either, I told you that. I will listen, but only if you want to talk.”

Dean sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I'm sorry,” he mutters. “Pretty fuckin' stupid it still affects me this much, huh? Even after five years?”

“No,” Castiel says, because if anyone knows anything about healing in their own time, it's Castiel.

“It's my fault my dad's dead,” Dean eventually admits. His gaze is fixated on something beyond the windshield, and Castiel's stomach drops.

He's slow to say, “If it was an accident, then it's not one's fault.”

Dean shakes his head, finally looking at Castiel. Eyes brimming with tears, voice scratchy as it comes out, thick. “It was raining that night. Dad was at some bar getting smashed, and the owner called me to come pick him up. Car died on the way home, still no clue why, but when I got out to see what was going on, I told Dad to stay in the car. He didn't listen. This truck – drunk driver – swerved off the road. The truck would've hit me if my dad hadn't-” Dean doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.

“It wasn't your fault, Dean.” Cas's voice is careful, barely loud enough for Dean to hear.

Dean looks up at him, a tear sliding down his cheek that shatters Castiel's heart into a million pieces. “You don't know that.”

Castiel moves in close, draws Dean in to kiss him again and again until he can feel Dean relax beneath his touch. “Yes,” Castiel murmurs, lips ghosting over Dean's eyelids and forehead. “I do.”

The cab falls silent. Castiel hugs Dean tight. Dean's been hurting all this time, and Castiel was too self absorbed to notice and he feels awful, but this isn't about Castiel. It's about Dean.

"Is becoming a firefighter still something you want to do?"

Dean shrugs. "Just kinda feel like my times passed, y'know?"

Castiel nods. There's an ache in his chest now, a sorrow he feels for the life Dean's lived. Normally such intense feelings for another person would have him ready to bolt, but instead they root him to the spot and make him want to cling to Dean and not let him go.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says quietly.

Dean shakes his head, letting all the air out of his lungs and running his hands along the steering wheel. "You don't have to say that, Cas," he hedges. "You don't want my pity, and I don't want yours. Yeah, I got dealt a shitty hand, but I'm doing just fine, alright?"

He looks at Castiel, Dean's eyes begging him to understand, and even though Dean is so far from alright, Castiel doesn't protest. He'd only be hypocritical if he did.  "Alright."

Dean leans across the cab again and steals a final kiss, then starts the car and backs out of their parking spot, his shoulders relaxed and his fingers fiddling with the volume on the stereo like he hasn't just poured his soul out to Castiel and left himself hanging bare and vulnerable.

Castiel doesn't say anything about the AC/DC booming out of the speakers, and Dean sings along loudly the whole way home.

~

Back at the house, Pamela and Jo are in the kitchen rummaging around in cupboards and digging through the fridge.

"Get out of my kitchen, you heathens!" Dean shouts putting a load of groceries on the kitchen table.

"We're starved," Jo protests as she dodges a swat on her behind from Dean's flailing palm. Castiel skirts around them and drops the rest of the grocery bags on the table.

"I told you I was gunna make pizza, didn't I?" Dean begins to pull ingredients from the bags. He organizes them all on the countertop in a way Castiel can't even begin to understand - but that makes his chest feel a little tight, it just doesn’t look  _ right  _ \- so he stays out of the way, and as far away from Pamela as possible. She's a nice lady and probably means well, but Castiel's still reeling from their last run in and every time he feels her gaze on him, he fears her eyes will burn right out of her head if she looks at him any more intently.

Pamela folds her arms over her chest. "That was hours ago, sweet cheeks," she states matter-of-factly.

Dean’s attention is elsewhere when he answers, "I was attending to important business." The bags are nearly emptied now and Castiel feels like he should be doing something other than just standing, but he feels a little trapped between the banter and bodies maneuvering about the kitchen.

Pamela brushes her eyes over Castiel, first meeting his gaze then roving on down to his neck, eyeing the bruises Dean left in the shower earlier that day. "I can see that," she muses with a wicked grin.

Jo cackles around a spoonful of cottage cheese, stolen from the fridge when Dean had his back turned, and Castiel's face heats up. Stupid Pamela.

Dean merely shakes his head, "What are you guys doing, anyway?"

"Charlie and Ash are setting up  _ Hunter Heroici  _ so we can play," Jo informs him. "You guys gonna play?"

"As reigning champion, it is my duty to come down there and kick your asses," Dean’s eyes flash with pride. "Of course, we're playing, just let me get the pizzas in the oven."

Jo gives Dean a delighted smile, eyes wide and teeth showing, and then drags Pamela down the hall.

"What is it you've just signed me up for?" Castiel asks when he hears the clomp of Jo and Pamela's footsteps heading down to the basement.

" _ Hunter Heroici _ , it's kinda like a first-person shooter game," Dean explains as he washes his hands in the sink and starts pulling out mixing bowls and a cutting board. Castiel slides onto the countertop and watches Dean bustle about the kitchen.

"First-person shooter?"

"Yeah, you know  _ Call of Duty _ ,  _ Halo _ , that sort of thing."

"I don't-"

"It's a game, Cas," Dean says cutting him off. "It's on the Xbox. Two teams of four, you pick your character, angel, demon, hunter, vampire, that sort of thing, and everybody has a weapon. Basically, we chase each other around and waste each other until one team or the other wins. There's a little bit more strategy to it than that, but you get the gist."

"Sounds riveting," Castiel responds dryly.

Dean looks over from the pizza dough he's pouring into a mixing bowl and offers Castiel a wide grin, "You bet your ass it is. Charlie and Ash wrote the game themselves." He turns back to the dough, mixing in water now, and Castiel studies Dean in what appears to be his element. He looks younger, more honest somehow, as he prepares the food, more  _ approachable _ . Or perhaps he's always been that way, and Castiel has failed to notice until now.

"Dean," Castiel says, his mouth moving without his permission. His intent was to study from afar, observe, not intervene.

Dean looks over at him. "Yeah, babe."

Castiel stares across the kitchen at him briefly before blurting, "You should go to school."

Dean sighs, his shoulders falling dejectedly. "Cas."

"It was your dream," Castiel intervenes, suddenly feeling angry at a man he's never met for falling apart on Dean and taking his childhood away from him.

"It's not that easy."

"Why not?”

“Because if it weren’t for me, Sammy’d still have a dad,” Dean grunts stiffly. “But instead he gets me, so making sure he’s okay and gets everything he needs feels a lot more important than worrying about myself. And I know that don’t make things square, that sin will always be on my head, but at least one Winchester can come out on top of all this.”

Castiel lowers himself from the countertop, moving to put a hand on Dean’s arm. He’s opened a can of worms, he knows that, but Dean puts his whole self into taking care of everyone else and he needs someone to take care of him. “If it weren’t for you, Sam would have no one. And he’s grown now,” he begins tentatively. “You're perfectly capable and deserving of having your own life."

Dean turns frustrated green eyes on him. "I didn't tell you that stuff about me so you could give me some Feel Good bullshit, Cas.”

"It isn't bullshit, Dean," Castiel growls back.

Dean shakes his head, pulling his arm from Castiel’s grasp and reaching for the mound of dough in the mixing bowl, slapping it on the counter where he's drizzled flour. He works the heels of his hands into the sticky mess until it becomes pliant. "You ever give up on anything, Cas?" he asks quietly. "Something you really wanted to do?"

Castiel is slow to answer, his lack of purpose hanging tauntingly in the air. "Yes," he admits, closing his eyes against the burn of memory in his brain. He'd had a plan too, several years ago, a passion that didn't compare to much else. Sometimes he still misses it.

"What happened?"

"My priorities were... replaced," Castiel answers carefully.  Just because Dean offered up all the nitty gritty details of his past doesn't mean he's going to do the same.

"Do you ever think about going back? Trying again?"

Castiel shrugs one shoulder, watching Dean work. "It doesn't really feel like I can," he admits.

Dean offers him a weak smile, and Castiel gets it. It  _ isn't _ that easy. "I'm sorry," he mutters, suddenly feeling farther away from Dean than he has in a long time. This morning feels like ages away, eons ago, when they had been wrapped up in the newness of being together. And in a blink, it almost feels like that moment between them, the  _ easiness _ of each other never existed.

Dean looks at him then, almost startled. Castiel can only stare back, apologetic and regretful. There's a part of him that wishes he didn't know enough about Dean to care about him the way he does. It makes him feel too full, too responsible. He now has the ability to hurt Dean in so many ways that it makes his head spin.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says again.

Dean sighs, wiping his hands off on a nearby dish towel and turning to curl an arm around Castiel’s waist. "Hey," he says softly. "It's okay, alright. I'm just touchy about it, I guess. Still kinda bitter."

"I understand," Castiel says, worrying at his bottom lip.

After a moment Dean lets out a blunt edged chuckle. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? Two stubborn assholes who don't want to talk about anything?"

"Who wants to waste time talking?"

Dean's responding smile is genuine, and Castiel loosens up a bit. "Emotionally well-adjusted idiots with no sense of mystery." He guides Castiel's face close to his own and slots their lips together in a slow, simple kiss.

When they pull away, Castiel feels lighter, that gaping space he felt between he and Dean just moments ago closing without much effort at all. After a beat Dean moves back into his own space, and Castiel relaxes.

As Dean goes back to working on the pizzas, Castiel snags an open can of pineapple off the counter and dips his fingers in the juice, looking for a piece. He's just slid a chunk of the fruit into his mouth when Dean turns an accusing gaze on him, scowling at Castiel's fingers still in his mouth. Castiel slides them out guiltily and offers Dean a sheepish smile.  

"You wanna quit messing around and help me, Edlund?" Dean grumbles.

"I prefer to watch," Castiel answers, still chewing.

Dean shakes his head. "You ever heard of the Little Red Hen, sweetheart?"

"No."

"Cliff notes version is you don't help, you don't eat."

Castiel frowns, digging out another piece of pineapple. "Why doesn't anyone else have to help?"

At this Dean flashes Castiel a sickly-sweet grin. "Because I said so." He pushes a cutting board against Castiel's chest and hands him a knife. "You can start by cutting up that bell pepper," he says sprinkling mushrooms and olives onto one of the pizzas. "I already washed it."

Castiel makes a dramatic display of sighing unhappily, finding the bell pepper Dean referred to and putting it on the cutting board. The kitchen falls silent.

"Do you take pleasure in cooking for people?" Cas wonders after a while as he slices the vegetable into thin, even slices.

"I don't know, maybe," Dean’s dropping pineapple onto the pizza now. "Nobody goes hungry in my house."

"You enjoy taking care of people," Castiel observes.

Dean shrugs, "It's just what I've always done."

"You're good at it," Castiel offers quietly, reflecting on all the times Dean's taken care of him, even when they hardly knew each other, Castiel's needs came first. He's always felt safe with Dean, from the very beginning.

Dean turns to Cas, a small smile on his face, "Thanks," he says, obviously pleased but attempting to keep it on a simmer.

Castiel smiles back.

When the bell pepper is all cut up, Castiel hands the cutting board over to Dean who empties its contents onto the pizza. He adds a few seasonings and puts all three pizzas into the oven.

Clean up goes quickly, and when they're all done, Dean looks to Cas with a taunting grin on his face. "You ready to get your ass kicked in  _ Hunter Heroici _ ?"

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. "You wish, Winchester," he retorts, then he turns and retreats for the basement. Dean follows him eagerly.

~

The basement has been transformed from a regular living space into an Epic Game Suite Extravaganza. Two flat screen TVs sit in the middle of the room, both facing away from each other, a gaming system hooked up to each. The furniture has been moved around to accommodate both teams, and when Dean and Castiel reach the bottom of the stairs, all eyes turn to them.

"Cas is on our team!" Ruby shouts. Castiel isn't sure what she's so eager about; he is undoubtedly going to be the lesser of the team, but he shrugs anyway and doesn't argue.

"Okay."

"Wait, you're making us be on separate teams?" Dean asks going to the bar and pulling out beers for everyone.

"Only fair way, Dean-O," Ash responds with a lazy smile. "Can't have you worrying about protecting your boyfriend when we need your skills."

Ash throws the term boyfriend out without so much as a blink and Castiel isn't sure how he feels about it much less how he should deal with it, but then Dean is there, shouting across the room.

"Boyfriend's a big word," he starts. There's no venom behind it, no resentment or malice; it's made as a simple statement, and Castiel's grateful for it. "Regardless," Dean continues, "I could still do that  _ and _ kick everybody's ass."

"Is that what you want on your headstone?" Jo asks. "Because tonight is definitely the night you are going down."

Dean mutters a "Whatever" under his breath and pulls out the last of the beers. Castiel watches the exchange with a small smile on his face.

When Dean looks over at him, he scowls. "What?"

"Your faith in yourself is amusing," Castiel explains.

"Yeah, well, I'm awesome, so," Dean shrugs and shoots Castiel a grin. It's one of those grins that irritates Castiel, the kind that's so charming it sticks in Castiel's brain for days and has him craving more.

Castiel scoffs and shakes his head. "Awesome is not the adjective I'd use to describe you," he retorts.

Dean starts uncapping all the beers. "What adjectives  _ would _ you use to describe me, Cas? Adorable? Charismatic? Big?" Dean wiggles his eyebrows at the last word, biting his lip and nodding suggestively, and Castiel does his best not to roll his eyes.

"Cocky," Castiel answers, "arrogant, egotistical, would you like me to go on?"

"All those mean the same thing."

Castiel continues, "Haughty, cavalier, cheeky, audacious, imperious."

"So, what you're telling me is you think I'm all talk about this game?" Castiel shrugs, and Dean narrows his eyes. "Alright fine, you know what? Let's make things interesting. You a gambling man, Cas? ‘Cause I think we should make a little wager."

"Such as?"

"If I win, you give me a blow job," Dean says with an offhanded smile. "I'm gonna need proof that I didn't just imagine, in my drunken state, what you can do with that pretty little mouth of yours."

Castiel folds his arms over his chest. "I can see you've really thought about this," he says. Dean shrugs his shoulders casually as if wagering sex is textbook behavior, and at that, Castiel does roll his eyes. But if that's the way Dean wants to play it, Castiel can get on board. "And if I win?" he asks, eyes narrowed and calculating

"I'll  _ let _ you suck me off."

Castiel shakes his head, "No dice, Winchester, what's in that for me?"

"The pleasure of pleasuring me.” Dean, the jackass, laughs at himself, and when Castiel merely blinks at him, Dean waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Fine, what do you want?"

Castiel contemplates for a good few moments. If he's being honest with himself sex with Dean is more than satisfying, and he can't think of a single thing he's dying to have that he's gone without. After a second it comes to him, and he smiles, thin and sly. "If I win, I get to play my music in your car for an entire week."

"Fuck that."

Castiel shrugs nonchalantly and crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought you were the reigning champion."  

Dean scrunches his face into a calculating glower. "You know what?" he says after a beat. "Fine. You're on."

Castiel smiles wide in a way he rarely does and tilts his head to the side. "This is going to be so much fun."

"Okay, creep-o," Dean says, "just don't get too excited alright?

Castiel ignores Dean and reaches for some of the beers on the counter, but Jo steps up beside him and wraps a warm hand around his wrist. "You go learn how to play, I'll do this."

Castiel nods and walks away from the bar, shooting a challenging glance over his shoulder. Dean shakes his head, but Castiel can see the faint lines of irresolution etched in his face.

On his team's side of the room, Charlie is there waiting for him with a controller in hand and smile on her face.

"Alright, so," she begins, "you're on Team Tigress with me, Jo, and Ruby. You don't want to kill any of us because we're your  _ teammates _ . Get it?"

Castiel nods. "I'm familiar with what it means to be on a team, yes," he says.

"Okay good. Because you would not believe how many times I've been killed by my own teammate in this game. You put some people behind a controller, and they go trigger happy. This is not Cabela's Dangerous Hunts 2009 you don't just go around shooting everything that moves."

"I assure you, I understand."

"Great. So, everyone has a personalized character and a weapon. When you kill someone, you also get their weapon; if they've killed people and gained more weaponry from them, you get those too. If you die, you can be brought back three times, but you lose your arsenal and you're weakened from the resurrection; the only exception to the three-times rule is if you have a reaper on your team. Reapers can resurrect their teammates continuously, but it weakens them each time they do. Still following me?"

Castiel nods. It seems like a simple game of strategy and team work, and he's certain he can keep up. When Charlie has explained all the rules and given him some beginner's tips and tricks, they begin to build him a character. Charlie goes over all the stats with him, what characters can do what and so on ,and Castiel listens very closely and absorbs all the information he can. There are pros and cons to all characters, he learns, but by the time Charlie has finished explaining, Castiel has narrowed down his options to a leprechaun (which Charlie informs him is in the fae family) and a shapeshifter, both of which Charlie advises him against but tells him ultimately, it's up to him. As he debates between the two, Charlie fills him in on the other team's stats. He learns that Dean is an angel, Sam a demon, Ash a hunter, and Tessa a reaper. Between the four of them, they have nearly unlimited abilities

"And what do we have on our team?" Castiel asks.

"Ruby is a witch, Jo is a hell hound, and I'm a leviathan," Charlie explains. "We could really use a demon or a reaper and I kind of had you pegged as an angel guy, but we'll work with whatever."

Dean walks over with beers in his hands and gives one to Charlie and one to Cas. When he sees the leprechaun pulled up on the screen, he snickers.

"Thinking about being a fairy, Cas?" his tone mocking.

Castiel narrows his eyes. "Does that worry you, Dean?"

"Creeps me out is more like it." Castiel tilts his head to the side in question, and Dean falters briefly before explaining, "Those little dudes are scary: small hands."

Castiel looks at Charlie with defiance on his face. "I'll be the leprechaun."

Dean mutters a quick, "sick bastard," under his breath and then leaves Castiel and Charlie to finish their tutorial. Charlie goes over Castiel's character with him, and Castiel chooses a bow and arrow as his weapon ("Good for long range shots but not face to face combat," Charlie warns him). After learning which buttons do what and messing around with his controller a bit, he feels ready to play.

The game is dark and gory. They're in a forest like terrain in the middle of the night, and it takes Castiel a few minutes to adjust to what's going on around him. He can see his three teammates but not the other team, as they're playing on separate screens, and a good portion of the game is spent traipsing through the woods looking for each other. When the two teams finally meet, Castiel asks Charlie which character is Dean’s. She points him out, an avatar that looks much like Dean but with big white wings, and then Castiel is disappearing into the trees, slipping away from his team.

Ruby is the first on their team to go down, blasted to hell with one touch of Dean's hand, and Team Tigress yells in frustration. After that the kills become more frequent.

Soon everyone on both teams has died at least once, Ruby and Tessa are out, and Jo is on her last life. Castiel's just been resurrected after being killed by Ash, and he retreats to the trees again, climbing and resting up high, watching things happen below him.

It's loud in the room, everyone screaming excitedly, both teams shouting orders at each other, Pamela jumping between both teams to moderate, and Castiel takes it all in, absorbs Dean's lifestyle like a sponge. Everyone seems so comfortable here like they know they're safe and that they'll be taken care of, and it adds to the pile of warmth Castiel's been collecting all day. He feels safe with Dean too, and that's something he hasn't felt in a very long time.

On the game Castiel watches as Charlie takes out Ash, killing him off indefinitely, and Jo grapples with Sam until he wastes her with his demon powers. Now all that's left on Team Tigress is Charlie and Cas, and they're up against Sam and Dean. Cas has two lives, everyone else has one.

"Cas, where you at?" Charlie half whispers out of the side of her mouth. The room has fallen quiet now, both teams hiding out from each other and those that have already lost watching on with anticipation for their teammates.

"Observing," Castiel answers. He knows Charlie is on his team, but his plan requires the utmost secrecy. He's been hiding out high in the leafy branches of the same tree since he climbed out of Purgatory and all he needs is the right moment.

He can hear Dean and Sam talking on their side of the televisions, their voices low but not low enough, and he smiles to himself when Dean says, "Sammy, gang up on Charlie, that'll draw him out."

Charlie is standing right in front of his tree now and he elbows her in the ribs and eyes his tree, hoping she gets the hint. She looks over at him and studies his face for a few seconds before forming an "O" with her lips and nodding at him. She stands in front of the tree and waits.

Within seconds, Charlie is ambushed, Dean and Sam rushing her from both sides, and she manages to hold her own while Castiel attacks from above. He shoots arrow after arrow at the demon and angel, the magic in the arrows slowing Dean and Sam's characters down little by little, and soon enough, Charlie's character is swallowing Sam whole and he's done for.

"What the hell, Cas?!" Dean shouts from his side of the TVs. "Where are you, you fucker?" His character starts to retreat, but Charlie jumps him from behind.

Charlie's leviathan doesn't last long. Dean slices through her middle, and she falls in a heap to the ground leaving Dean and Cas the last ones standing. Dean's character bends down to pick up the arsenal Charlie's collected, and that's when Castiel trades his bow and arrow for the angel sword in his arsenal. He flings it into the air, spinning end over end, and it embeds itself square in Dean's back, catching him right in the heart. Dean’s character falls to the ground dead, and Team Tigress goes wild. There are hands all over him, shaking him and clapping him on the back, excited shouts filling the air. It may be just a game, but Castiel feels the victory course through him nonetheless. He stands and approaches the other team's side, glancing around the televisions until Dean comes into the view. Dean is still staring at the screen, his mouth slightly agape, and when Castiel catches his eye, Dean looks up at him genuinely surprised.

"Did you hustle me?" Dean asks around the chatter.

Castiel shrugs and helps Dean up. "A simple game of strategy, Dean, that's all it was."

Dean stares at him, the astonishment still ebbing slowly out of his expression, and Castiel can't help the satisfied smile that climbs to his face. Once Dean gets over the initial shock of it all, he smiles at Castiel and pulls Cas close to him by the belt loops of the jeans he's wearing. "You know," Dean says quietly, "I'm actually kinda turned on right now that you beat me by hiding in a tree. Sneaky little fucker."

"I hope this taught you a lesson, Dean Winchester," Castiel says bringing his lips a breath away from Dean's. "Never underestimate the power of a man with small hands."

Dean bursts into laughter, but Castiel kisses him anyway.

~

After pizza and more beer, a few more trickle out for the night, and those who remain decide to finish off the Hitchcock films they hadn't made it through the night before.

Castiel follows Dean upstairs, both with empty plates and used silverware in their hands, and Dean instructs him to dump it all in the sink. "I'll take care of them later," he says. Castiel does as he's told and then turns and looks at Dean. There's a look in his eyes Castiel can't place, something torn yet hopeful, and Dean runs a hand over his mouth before speaking. "So, uh, you gonna head out, or?"

That's when Castiel realizes the thought hasn't crossed his mind in hours, and until Dean said something, Castiel had been planning, somewhere deep in the confines of his subconscious, on staying another night. He decides to play coy anyway.

"Are you dropping hints?" he wonders, widening his eyes and throwing in a head tilt for good measure. Dean's face melts, and he shakes his head.

"I just didn't know if you, you know, were ready to leave. I don't want you to feel like I'm holding you prisoner or anything."

"I thought I'd stay another night, if that's alright."

Dean nods. "Totally alright," he says, " _ more _ than alright."

The two of them stand staring at each other for a few moments before Castiel speaks up.

"So, should we..."

Dean fakes a yawn, raising his arms above his head and everything as if they're not alone in the room. “Yeah, I'm feelin' kinda tired.”

"You just want a blow job." Castiel smirks, heading for Dean's bedroom.

Dean is quick to follow him. "Are you offering?" he asks eagerly.

"You lost, remember?"

"I like to think of it as second place," Dean amends, closing the door behind them.

Castiel chuckles as he steps out of his pants. "Think whatever you'd like, Dean. But my mouth is not going anywhere near your dick tonight." He pulls his shirt off and tosses it across the room, landing it right on Dean's head.

"Asshole," Dean grumbles, flicking off the light.

The moon is bright as it pools over Dean's bed in a silvery glow.

Castiel climbs in first, the sheets cool against his skin, and Dean joins him shortly after.

In true Dean Winchester fashion, he presses himself up against Castiel's front, burying his face in Castiel's throat and wrapping warm arms around his middle. Castiel combs his fingers through Dean's hair.

“This okay?” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s skin.

Castiel leans to press a kiss to Dean’s forehead, smiling into the dark. “Yes.”

"Awesome. You gonna leave without saying goodbye tomorrow morning?"

"I work first thing," Castiel explains. "Would you prefer I woke you?"

"I don't like it when you don't say goodbye."

Castiel feels warm. “You’re adorable when you’re sentimental," he teases lightly.

“Shuddup. I’m adorable all the time.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “especially when you’re so humble about it.”

Dean’s response is to press a kiss to the hollow of Castiel’s throat, and he falls asleep with his fingers teasing along Dean's scalp and a feeling of contentment settled in his chest.

The next morning, when Castiel leaves Dean’s in the cover of the dark, early morning, Dean still in a deep sleep, he pulls on the clothes he wore the day before and drops a kiss to Dean’s forehead and runs fingers through his hair.

“I’ll see you later, Dean,” he whispers before he slips out the door.

It's the most satisfied he’s ever felt walking away from Dean’s sleeping form.


	12. Chapter 12

**[1:45 pm]** **Hey, is it cool if I come over? I’m off in 15.**

Castiel smiles when he sees the message is from Dean. Most of his text messages are from Dean now, but it’s still satisfying to see his name flashing across Castiel’s screen. _You’re asking my permission?_ Castiel types back.

**Didn’t want you thinking I was a creep for just showing up.**

_That hasn’t stopped you in the past._

**Can I come over or not, asshole?**

Castiel smirks down at his phone. Just as he begins to respond, the bell above the door chimes, and he looks up. Ruby is there, wrapped in her leather jacket and thick black scarf that seems to be bigger than she is. She has two cups of coffee in hand and looks flustered, which is never a good sign.

Castiel eyes her quietly as she comes to stand in front of the register and carefully slides one of the cups across the counter top in obvious solidarity.

"What do you want?" Castiel asks with an eyebrow quirked.

Ruby bites at her lip, her brown eyes big and pleading. "Work for me?"

Castiel swipes the coffee off the counter and takes a sip so Ruby can't reclaim it despite his answer. "Why would I do that?" he wonders.

"Because I'm your favorite cousin in the entire world?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Alfie's my favorite cousin,” he lies. “Answer the question."

"You're such a little shit, Cas," Ruby counters with a scowl. Castiel quips a smile at her, small and knowing. " _Anyway_ , if you must know, the band wants to practice."

At that Castiel scoffs. "No," he answers curtly.  He sets his coffee cup on the counter and begins gathering his things.

Ruby sighs, her body slumping against the counter in a manner that makes her small frame look even smaller. "C'mon, Cas. This is important."

"I have plans."

Ruby's eyes narrow. "What _plans_?" she asks, her voice dripping with accusation and her arms folding across her chest.

"Plans that do not include working an extra six hours at this godforsaken shop." Castiel slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and begins to straighten the pile of records that's left sitting on the counter. Originally, he’d sorted them alphabetically, but now he wonders if by release date would have been better. Ruby's eyes flick to the topmost record and a look of realization crosses her face.

"It's Dean, isn't it?"

Castiel holds the records against his chest. "Regardless of what it is, I'm not working for you, Ruby."

"Are those records for him?" she questions, clearly finding Castiel's personal life far more interesting than her own current woes. Castiel's stomach tightens at her observation, but he doesn't deny it. Ruby's eyes spark with interest. "So, are you guys, like, boyfriends now?"

At Castiel's responding shrug, Ruby's eyes nearly pop from their sockets. "This is big, Cas, you've never dated anyone! Ever!"

"Yes, well," Castiel says, feeling uncomfortable with Ruby's ability to make him feel like a sixth grader, "you'll see why it's important I don't work for you then. I've got something big waiting for me."

Ruby crinkles her nose. "Okay, that was way too much information."

Castiel shrugs one shoulder and steps from behind the counter. "I think you'll recall you using the term first."

There's a dramatic exhale from Ruby as she takes Castiel's place behind the register, and Castiel smiles to himself. "Whatever, Casanova. Have fun getting your brains fucked out by Dean Winchester. Even though I'll bet Sam is bigger."

Castiel scowls at Ruby from where he's stopped in the doorway. " _That_ ," he clips, "was entirely unnecessary."

"Shoulda worked for me," Ruby offers in return. Her attention is on her phone now, and Castiel steps outside – just as his phone buzzes again – and lets the door swing shut behind him.

**[1:52 pm] Are you trying to be coy, or is that no?**

Rolling his eyes, Castiel’s fingers hit the keyboard. _Yes, you can come over. But only because you asked nicely. ;)_

**Awesome, be there in a few.**

**(And emoticons? Really, Cas?)**

Before pocketing his phone, Castiel responds with a simple :-* .

~

"You into rock now, Cas?"

Castiel looks up from the pancake he's just poured onto his griddle and over to the stack of records Dean's riffling through with obvious interest.

"Oh," he says, his face flushing. "No. I actually brought them home for you."

He watches as Dean's smirk melts into something fonder, and then, feeling fidgety under Dean's gaze, looks back down at the griddle.

"You got me records?"

"Was I not clear when I said I brought them home for you?" Castiel quips, flipping another pancake and adding it to the plate.

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he looks pleased as he shuffles through the titles, and for that, Castiel is glad.

He pours more batter onto the griddle, and Dean eyes the stack of pancakes Castiel has already made, sitting in a precarious heap on a plate just in front of him.

Dean moves to stand behind Castiel, pressing his chest against Castiel's back as his arms come to wind around Castiel's waist. When Dean's warm breath hits Castiel's ear, he shivers.

"You about done here?" Dean asks lowly. "I'm kinda hungry."

"Distracting me isn't going to get them made any faster," Castiel responds, pressing into Dean when Dean's hands find their way up Castiel's shirt.

"This okay?" Dean murmurs in his ear. His hands are warm against Castiel's skin, a strong soothing weight brushing up and down his torso.

Unable to speak, Castiel merely nods.

Dean presses kisses behind Castiel's ear and all along the column of his neck, first on one side and then the other. "Is this why you're always cooking for everyone?" Castiel wonders. "Because you're too impatient to wait otherwise?"

"I'm not impatient," Dean counters, "I just like being close to you." He bites gently at the tendon on Castiel's neck, and Castiel loses his grip on his spatula.

"Yes, well, be close to me somewhere else," Castiel grits, mourning the blob of pancake that folded over as he tried to flip it. It happened around the same time Dean's teeth hit his neck.

Dean chuckles, placing one more kiss to Castiel's neck, and moves away. The cold space now at his back has Castiel almost asking Dean to return. Instead he pours the last of the batter onto the griddle and asks Dean to pull the fruit out of the fridge.

They eat their food on the couch while Twin Peaks plays in the background. Castiel spoons fruit onto Dean's plate, despite his protests, and watches him eat until it's all gone. Dean grumbles about it a bit, but Castiel gathers he's just being difficult because he can be.

When Castiel finishes off his last bite of pancake, Dean tugs his plate out of his hands and stacks it on top of his own on Castiel's coffee table. "Thanks for the food," he mutters, cupping Castiel's face and drawing him in for a kiss.

He tastes like maple syrup and pineapple, and when Castiel sighs into the kiss, he feels Dean smile against his mouth.

This thing they have going, this slow, uncomplicated, pleasant thing, makes Castiel want to fully give himself over to Dean, to tell him everything about himself, to give Dean all his broken pieces and hope Dean can find a way to make them all fit together in his life.

It makes Castiel want to let go of all his hurt, to move on.

Castiel gently tugs at Dean's shirt. Dean raises his arms without question and allows the fabric to be pulled over his head. Castiel tosses the shirt somewhere behind them and presses Dean into the couch cushions, straddling Dean's waist and bringing their lips together in a slow, deep kiss. "Dean," he breathes into the other man's mouth, wanting to say something, but unable to find the words.

The problem with moving on is knowing who you are once you've let go of something that's become a constant in your life. Castiel's been in this darkness for so long, he's not sure who he is without it. He remembers who he was before, but that person seems like a dream, a mirage that never actually existed.

All he knows now is the Castiel who blocks everyone out, who avoids dealing with things, lives his day-to-day ensconced in a dark cloud. And while it's not ideal, he doesn't know how else to be.

Dean's hands come to cup Cas's face so gently he could cry, and he kisses him back unhurried and tender.

Castiel could almost get lost in moments like this forever.

They move back in for another kiss, but a knock on the door causes Castiel to stop halfway. His head turns towards the sound, and he frowns.

"Cas?" Dean asks, "You okay?"

"Someone's knocking on the door," Castiel points out as he sits up, Dean's fingers trailing lightly down his ribs as he goes. Something icy pokes at his nerves.

"Yeah, I heard. You expecting someone?"

Castiel climbs off Dean and stands staring at the door. "I'm not partial to visitors."

"Okay," Dean says flopping onto his back on the couch and folding his arms behind his head. "So maybe they have the wrong apartment."

Castiel approaches the door cautiously and pulls it open. When he sees the man standing on his doorstep, cheeky grin on his face, light features just as smarmy as ever, his stomach bottoms out, and bile rises in his throat.

"Balthazar," Castiel breaths on a heavy exhale, his head spinning and the fierce urge to slam the door in the other man's face only just being held at bay.

Balthazar throws his hands out to his sides. "Surprise," he says.

"How did you find me?" Castiel breathes.

Balthazar shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning up against the door frame as he fixes his light blue eyes on Castiel. "I'll admit, Cassie, I had to do some digging. All this time I've been looking for Castiel Novak, but apparently, he doesn't exist anymore."

"You're right," Castiel confirms, "he doesn't." At that moment Castiel hears the shuffling of feet behind him, and then Dean is there, peering over his shoulder. "Who's this?" he wonders, hands coming to rest on Castiel's hips possessively.

"Dean, go put your shirt on," Castiel instructs, evading the question. He knows Dean is going to want to talk about this, to know who the hell the smug British man standing on his doorstep is, but it's not a conversation Castiel can have right now, especially with said smug British man still standing there. Dean grumbles something unintelligible and disappears into the apartment.

Castiel is slow to avert his eyes back to Balthazar's, but when he does, the other man is colored shocked. "And who's this?" he prods.

Castiel lets out a sigh, "Balthazar, why are you here?" He knows he sounds rude, but the black hole in his chest that was slowly starting to wane is threatening to burst open again, the edges rapidly peeling back like parchment on fire, and Castiel's fighting a full-on anxiety attack. There was a reason he'd left his past in the past, a reason he didn't keep in contact with certain people from Before, and now all those steps he'd carefully taken to keep his former life safely tucked away are null, his past standing on his doorstep smirking at him like nothing has changed.

"The last time I saw you, you were pretty broken up, and I was concerned," Balthazar explains. "I just had to know you were getting along okay. But I'd say by the looks of things," Balthazar's eyes travel past Castiel and move on into the apartment where Castiel assumes Dean's making himself decent, "you're doing just fine."

Castiel doesn't respond. He feels Dean come to stand next to him again, this time fully clothed, and warm fingers close around his wrist and squeeze. It's a fleeting gesture, Castiel's not sure it even really happened, but it's enough to ease some of the tension thrumming through him.

Balthazar's eyes flick from Castiel to Dean, and he takes a step forward and reaches out a hand. "I'm Balthazar," he says once it's obvious Castiel isn't going to introduce the two of them.

"Dean," Dean says back as he shakes Balthazar's hand.

After the introduction the three of them stand there in silence staring at one another, Castiel wishing with all his might that Balthazar will take the hint and leave.

"Are you going to invite me in then?" Balthazar finally asks.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's me," Balthazar answers, some of his snark leaving him, replaced with that all too familiar sympathetic look that Castiel hates being on the receiving end of. "C'mon, Cassie, don't be such a wanker, all I want is to talk."

The sincerity in Balthazar's voice causes Castiel to ache. He wants to be able to let the other man in, to talk with him about old times, but just the sight of him is stirring too many painful memories and it's too much.

Castiel casts his gaze down at his feet as he quietly mutters, "I can't do this right now, Balthazar."

Balthazar sighs, a longsuffering sound as if he knew Castiel would turn him away, and pushes off the door frame. "Alright, Cassie," he says reaching for his back pocket, "if that's how you want to leave things. I'm not here to pry." He pulls out his wallet and fishes a business card from one of the pockets, handing it over to Castiel. "I'll be in the area for awhile on business. Call me if you change your mind. I'd really like to catch up."

Castiel studies the business card, Balthazar's name, position, and phone number etched into the paper, and Balthazar turns to leave. He hasn't gotten far when Castiel calls out to him. The other man turns back towards Castiel's apartment. "I'm sorry," Castiel offers after a beat of silence.

Balthazar nods his understanding. "I know," he says, then turns again and retreats down the hall.

Castiel watches until Balthazar disappears behind the door to the stairwell, and then he closes his front door and presses his back against it, unable to support his own weight. He stares at Balthazar's business card and tries to dam up the memories that are threatening to flood his brain. It's not until Dean is standing in front of him, ducking his head to meet Castiel's eyes that Castiel even remembers Dean is still there.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?" Dean asks when Castiel meets his gaze.

"No," Castiel answers honestly. Even if he did want to talk about it, he doesn't think he could stomach doing so.

Dean purses his lips and nods his head, and Castiel can feel the uncertainty rolling off him in waves, but he doesn't care. He's too tired to care. All he wants is to drown himself in alcohol and forget this ever happened.

"I think you should leave," Castiel says quietly as he looks back down at Balthazar's business card. “I’d prefer to be alone right now.”

Dean throws his hands out to his sides. "Just like that?"

Castiel looks up at him, eyes narrowed, mouth unmoving.

"That's all it takes?" Dean continues, "One guy?"

"I'm not talking to you about this right now," Castiel states. He feels tired, so tired, and shaky, and if there's ever been a time he wanted to be alone more than this, he can't properly remember it at the moment. "Please leave," he requests again.

"Why?" Dean asks, his voice edged with annoyance. "So you can drink yourself sick over this? Over _him_?"

Castiel studies Dean, his head tilted to the side, confusion marring his features. Dean's words make no sense, and he's entirely too perturbed at the surprise visit to try and decipher them.

Dean seems to understand Castiel's confusion though because then he's gesticulating at the door wildly asking, "Is that who’s got you all fucked up, Cas? Balthazar? Did he screw you over or something? Break your heart?"

Castiel's eyelids narrow, two angry slits glaring daggers at Dean, and as he speaks, he spits his words out slowly, disdainfully. Dean's accusation is not only preposterous, it's also downright insulting. "Is that what you think this is, Dean? That I'm a lover scorned? That I bury myself in decadence because some bastard broke my heart?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," Dean admits angrily. "You keep everything so fucking repressed sometimes I wonder if you even remember why you're so pissed off at the world in the first place."

Countless arguments bubble in Castiel's throat at Dean's harsh words. He'd been foolish to think he could move on from his past or have some semblance of a normal relationship with someone. He'd lost himself in the way Dean made him feel, and Balthazar showing up was obviously the universe's way of reminding Castiel that he was too fucked up, too broken to be happy.

And Dean's reaction is his proof that no one's understanding will last forever.

Castiel squares his shoulders. "Clearly, I've never needed to tell you anything in the first place as you've always figured it out on your own." He shoves past Dean and retreats to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. It's a childish move, this he knows, but with Dean still in the tiny apartment, he has nowhere else to go.

He sits on the floor, pressing his back against the door, and stares at Balthazar's business card some more, his hands trembling and his stomach roiling. Almost two years. He had meticulously kept his past out for two careful years, and now it all seems for naught.

A flash of memory streaks across his brain, a track, grass freshly mowed, the sun beating down on his back, and Castiel hears blood pound in his ears, feels his skin prickle.

_“Hey, Cas, make sure you get my good side this time.” A smirk. A wink._

He tosses the card into the trash bin and presses the heels of his hands roughly against his eyes, raising his knees to his chest and heaving in deep gasps of air.

_Forget._

_Forget._

_Forget._

_Forget_.

But the memory doesn't fade.

Sliding his fingers through his hair, Castiel grabs at the tufts, pulling too tight and burying his face in his knees, images blotting into play just behind his eyelids as he barely reminds himself to breathe. _In_ , his brain stutters, _out_.

Damn Balthazar for not leaving well enough alone, damn him for waltzing back into Castiel's life and shattering the fragile wall he'd worked so hard to build between himself and the one moment in his life he wishes more than anything he could forget.

_Forget._

_Forget._

_Forget._

_Forget_.

Castiel's head spins, and a shiver rolls through him.

He had been doing so well. And now the icy grip of turmoil is clutching at his heart, his lungs. A smile, a laugh, things he desperately tries to remember, yet vehemently buries.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_Forget._

_Forget._

_Forget._

**_Forget._ **

After another beat something slides under the door, his American Spirits and a lighter. He blinks at the small box lying on the floor next to his hip and frowns. Dean must not have left. He hesitates before picking them up, unsure of whether he's ready to accept what's so obviously Dean's attempt at a peace offering and then giving in. His body aches for a calm.

Castiel fumbles with the lighter, unable to get it ignited in his shaking hands, and finally procures a flame on the third try. He lights up a cigarette and takes a deep drag, resting his head against the door and closing his eyes. His heart is still racing, a headache pounding at his temples, but Castiel focuses minutely on the smoky relief filling his lungs and clouding over the anxiety.

After a few more puffs, the tremor in his limbs begins to abate.

He finishes one cigarette and lights up another, flicking on the bathroom fan and sighing heavily, fighting against the bone deep weariness that always follows an anxiety attack. After a moment he moves from in front of the door, his back to the tub instead, and tugs it open.

For a moment, there's nothing, and then Dean creeps around the corner, his face etched with concern, his brows pulled together as he studies Castiel's face.

"Thank you," Castiel mutters, waving his cigarette in the air, his gaze boring into the plum skinny jeans he's wearing.

Dean crouches down just outside the door. "You okay?" he wonders, his voice quiet, cautious.

Castiel runs a hand through his hair, takes another pull on his cigarette. "I wasn't prepared for-"

"It's okay," Dean says, sitting down in the doorway. "You don't have to talk about it. I didn't realize how-"

"Fucked up I am?" Castiel supplies, a humorless smile gracing his lips.

Dean shakes his head. "Wrong I was," he says. "I just saw the guy, got jealous, and jumped to a conclusion. It was stupid. _Really_ fucking stupid."

"You _were_ an asshole," Castiel points out.

Dean sighs dejectedly, letting his head fall back against the door jamb and clasping his hands together nervously. "I'm sorry," he offers, his tone quiet, sincere. “I was just-”

“Scared,” Castiel nods. "I know."

A beat of silence passes between them before Castiel sighs, puts the last of his cigarette out on the ratty towel below him, and stands.

Dean stands too, a hand coming to curl around Castiel's bicep when he sways. Castiel closes his eyes. His legs aren't ready to hold his weight yet, and he reminds himself, one more time, to _breathe_. When he blinks his eyes open, he's enveloped in Dean's wide green gaze.

"You need water? Are you hungry? What can I do?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I just want to lie down." His body aches from being held so taut, fatigue ebbing into his bones as the last dredges of adrenaline fizzle.

"Yeah, okay." Dean lets his hand fall to his side, and Castiel brushes past him, working the fly of his jeans open and letting them drop to the floor before climbing onto his bed. He scowls at the sunlight pouring over his covers, wishing the apartment were darker, that night would creep in and eat up all the daylight.

Closing the curtains will have to do.

He stands again, taking a step towards the window, but then Dean is there, a calming hand on his shoulder, pressing him back onto the bed. "I'll get it," he says quietly.

Castiel nods, his mouth opening in a wide yawn, and lets his head fall to his pillow. In a gentle swish of navy fabric, the room darkens marginally, and Castiel feels his body relaxing, melting into the pillow-top beneath him.

In a moment Dean is at his side again, pulling Castiel's comforter up around his shoulders and smoothing a hand over the soft fabric.

Castiel reaches out, curls a hand around Dean's wrist. Less than an hour ago he wanted Dean gone forever, certain that's what Dean wanted too. Now in the dim quiet of his apartment, still feeling like he's been yanked over a line he wasn't ready to cross, Castiel wants nothing more than to feel the beat of Dean's heart under the palm of his hand, to listen to him breathe, deep and soothing.

Somewhere in the last few months, the fear of losing Dean has surpassed the fear of coping, and that's something Castiel can't ignore.

"Dean," he whispers. "Stay with me."

Dean withdraws his hand from Castiel's grasp, and for one terrifying second Castiel thinks Dean's going to leave, walk out the door, and never come back. The hushed rustle of clothing offers reassurance, and then the bed is dipping under Dean's weight as he fits himself to Cas's side.

"C'mere," Dean mutters, pulling Castiel in and settling him against his chest. Castiel breathes in, his lips finding the hollow of Dean's throat, and allows Dean's calming presence to wash over him. He feels the feather light press of lips against his forehead and the riffle of fingers through his hair. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Cas," Dean assures quietly.

Castiel lets out a shaky breath, his body relaxing further. "Thank you," he says. The room grows quiet, and if Castiel lies still enough, he can hear the gentle _thump thump_ of Dean's heart. He closes his eyes and tries to synchronize his breathing with Dean's. _In, out, in, out._ A steadiness begins to creep back into Castiel's limbs, and he shifts marginally against Dean, letting his ankles tangle with the other man's.

"Balthazar is an old friend," Castiel finally states, his eyes sliding open as Dean's hand stills in his hair. He waits a beat before continuing. "I knew him in college. We were very close, but we were only ever just friends."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Cas," Dean says quietly. "I was an asshole for accusing you of anything. Even if it had been true, that's none of my business."

Castiel kisses Dean's jaw and tucks his head under the other man's chin. "I know," he says, "but I wanted you to know."

Dean shifts, his body moving a breadth closer, and Castiel finally feels calm enough to let himself tip over that blissful edge of sleep.

~

Castiel only manages to doze. He starts awake every now and then, unwanted memories taunting him silently from just behind his eyelids, but Dean is there every time with an alleviating hand at his back, or the gentle press of his palm to Castiel's cheek, and for now it's enough.

**:::**

Castiel pulls on two sweaters over his t-shirt, a fitted red one and an oversized navy blue one with a big brown teddy bear on the front. When Dean sees it, he rolls his eyes, shrugging into his jacket and bending to lace up his boots.

"Got enough obnoxious sweaters on there, babe?"

Castiel digs a bright blue beanie out of his drawer, one that rests loosely on his head, and pulls it on, tugging it low over his ears. "You wear fifteen layers yourself; I don't know why my three would be anything to balk at."

"None of mine have giant fucking teddy bears on them," Dean retorts.

Castiel looks down at his sweater and shrugs. "It's warm."

Dean reaches out and pulls the beanie over Cas's eyes. "Yeah, Cas, like it was the only warm sweater in the store. You just wear that shit for attention," he goads, his voice carrying towards the door. Castiel huffs at Dean's back, repositioning the beanie and stalking after him.

"If anyone's dressing for _attention_ , Winchester, it's you. People will surely notice your bright blue hair and _guyliner_ before they ever even look at my sweater."

"Whatever," Dean’s hand is on the door handle and there’s a glimmer in his eye. He winds an arm around Castiel's waist and pulls him in for a kiss. "Let's go."

"Are you sure you want to be seen in public with me in my terrible sweater though? I could walk a few steps behind you so no one will know we're together." Castiel holds back as he says the words just for emphasis, but Dean stops, turns, and reaches for Castiel's hand.

"Shut up," he intones as Castiel smiles at him wide and cheeky. He leans in to kiss Cas again, and they head down the stairs towards Grace Cafe.

~

The coffee shop is bustling with people. They shoulder their way to the line behind the counter, and as they wait Castiel notices Dean's visible change in stance. Where he was mouthy and confident in Castiel's apartment, he's shrinking into himself now, eyes flitting between customers in an apprehensive glance.

Castiel slides his fingers between Dean's and squeezes. "Dean," he mutters.

Dean turns his green eyes on Castiel, and Cas immediately wants to kiss away the guarded look he finds in them. Instead he offers Dean a private smile.

"If you say anything even remotely close to _I told you so_ , I will burn every single last hideous sweater you own," Dean grumbles.

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, no one is even looking at you," he reassures, "it's all in your head."

"I don't fit in here, Cas," Dean states. And maybe it's true, he doesn't look like a lot of the people strewn throughout the cafe, everyone looking a little more like Cas, but in some ways, even Cas doesn't feel like he fits in. There's a certain separation that divides someone from the rest when they've experienced a pain like Castiel has, like Dean has, and even though people may not even know his story, he _feels_ different, like his tragedy is a scarlet letter emblazoned on his chest. Maybe people don't _know_ but they can speculate, and sometimes that's even worse.

Balthazar's face wheedles its way to the front of his brain.

He squeezes Dean's fingers again, tighter this time. "Neither do I," he says. There's no reason Dean should understand what he means, but he seems to anyway, swooping in and pressing his lips to Castiel's, quick but soft.

"We can stand out together then." It's silly and all sorts of cheesy, but it makes Castiel's chest warm and blurs the edges of his stark past that's been hovering at the fringes of his mind all afternoon.

At the register Castiel orders for them, a French press for himself (which Anna rolls her eyes at because she loathes making them) and a butter pecan latte in a to-go cup for Dean. Dean protests at the "frilly drink," but Castiel slides his card across the counter and ignores the huffy display Dean's putting on at his side.

Most of the tables are occupied, the couch too, but somehow Castiel's favorite spot is not. He tugs Dean towards it, and when they're standing in front of it, Dean motions to the chair. "There's only one," he points out.

Castiel rolls his eyes and sits, smooshing himself up against one side and yanking Dean down beside him. It's tight, but they both fit, their bodies pressing together in a constant line from their shoulders to their knees.

After a beat, Dean wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders, and Castiel sinks further against him.

"Are you still worried about there only being one chair?" He lets his head fall against Dean's shoulder. He's not the biggest supporter of PDA, but it feels nice being in such close vicinity to Dean, like no one can touch them if they stick together.

"Not so much," Dean replies, and Castiel chuckles.

"Are you sure? Because I can move. I wouldn't want you getting too close to my sweaters; I hear that's how hipsteritis is transmitted after all."

Dean scowls. "You think you're pretty funny, don't you, Edlund."

Castiel's grin is wide. "Hilarious."

Anna brings their drinks some time later. She hands them over with a hurried smile and retreats to the register in a flurry of red.

"Still don't understand why you couldn't just order me a normal damn coffee," Dean grumbles before he takes a sip of his drink. He goes surreptitiously quiet when the cappuccino slides past his lips, and Castiel smiles victoriously to himself.

"We can switch," Castiel offers, his eyes wide in mock innocence.

Dean shrugs. "Nah," he says, "I can live with this."

"It's really no trouble, Dean." Castiel reaches out for Dean's cup, but the other man curls his fingers around it protectively. "Oh," Castiel pronounces in surprise, "do you... _like_ it, Dean?"

Dean shoots a slanting gaze at Castiel, a flush high in his cheeks that sends something thick and happy curling through Castiel's belly. "Maybe," he grunts.

Castiel nods. "Hmmmmm."

"Just shut up and drink your _French press_ , you smug bastard."

Castiel smiles into his drink.

~

They stay long enough to see Alfie switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED and all the other patrons trickle out of the cafe. Anna blares the Kooks _Konk_ album as she and Alfie close up shop, and the two of them bustle around Dean and Castiel like they don't even exist.

For their first night out together as an official whatever-they-are, it's been nice for Castiel – despite the unexpected snag in his day – a relief almost to turn over this new stone and not shy away from being happy with Dean.

And it's refreshing to know that even though they're together now, Dean is still the same difficult asshole Castiel fell in- He mentally recoils from the words, focusing his attentions elsewhere. He's nowhere near ready to address _that_ . Not yet. Not _yet_.

He feels warm from the coffee, his belly pleasantly full, and his body is slumped comfortably against Dean's side. He taps his fingers along Dean's sternum to the beat of “Always Where I Need to Be,” as Anna carries a tray of pastries over to them.

"You want anything?" she asks. "We're just gonna toss them."

Dean sits up straight, his eyes already devouring the desserts. "I didn't know you had pie," he nearly gasps. Castiel shakes his head next to him. Dean reaches for the two plates of pie and pulls them off the tray.

"Anything else?" Anna questions.

“Why don’t you just box it all up,” Dean’s already examining both slices of pie, obviously trying to determine which he should shove in his face first. Cas glances at him, eyebrow raised, and Dean’s returning expression is the picture of innocence. “What? She said they’re just gonna throw them away. No use letting them go to waste.”

“I guess we’ll take it all,” Castiel relays to Anna, who’s smiling at the two of them knowingly. Castiel scowls at her, and with a nod she’s gone.

Castiel reaches for one of the plates of pie, but Dean yanks it away. "My pie."

"Honestly, Dean, if you were any more childish you'd-"

Dean cuts him off in an air of unapologetic haste. "Cas, if we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, you're gonna need to learn how important pie is."

"Enlighten me," Castiel drones.

Dean digs into one of the slices (the other he's set on the lip of the fireplace next to them, far out of Castiel's reach) and moans around the bite. "Very," he proclaims. "It's _very_ important."

Castiel huffs. "I'm gathering as much," he grouses. “Considering the only other time I hear noises like that from you is during sex.”

Dean polishes off the first slice in record timing. Three bites, it seems, is all it takes for Dean to make things that are "very important" disappear. As he digs into the second slice, peach this time, he grows quiet, chewing more slowly, his presence growing almost cautious.

"You have something to say," Castiel points out, recognizing right away what Dean's shift in mood means.

"Probably don't wanna hear it," Dean admits around a larger bite. Castiel wants to berate him for eating like a Neanderthal, but the words don't come. He sighs, rolling his shoulders, and holds out his hand.

"Fine, but only if you share."

Dean pauses – like he's _actually_ debating keeping his mouth shut in order to keep the pie all for himself – and then hands the remaining bites over to Castiel.

"I guess I'm just wondering if you're gonna see Balthazar again," he says carefully. His gaze is trained cautiously somewhere near their knees, and Castiel's heart sinks.

Back to Balthazar then.

He's quiet for several moments, fork scraping against the plate, gooey pie filling sliding across his tongue, and then he finally speaks. "I don't know." He breathes deep. "Would it bother you if I did?"

"No." Dean's response is almost immediate, firm, and Castiel feels relieved for at least that. "I think it'd be good for you," Dean continues. "He's your friend, Cas, he came all this way to see you."

Castiel shakes his head and lets out a bitter laugh. "He didn't come all this way to see _me_ , Dean. He's not sentimental like that."

"Okay, well, whatever. He's still here, isn't he? Maybe talking to him would be good for you."

As obvious as it is that Dean has absolutely no expertise in the area of What is Good and What Isn't, Castiel appreciates how much he cares. It hurts to hear, even just thinking about seeing Balthazar again makes him feel a little dizzy, but Dean means well and that's more than can be said for a lot of people in Cas's life.

"I'll think about it," he finally concedes.

Dean nods. "That's more than I expected so, awesome."

Castiel lets the prongs of the fork slide between his teeth, sucking off bits of crust and peaches as he contemplates. "Will you think about something for me?"

Dean looks at him, eyebrows raised in question.

"Look more into going to school?" Castiel nearly winces out. He knows it's a soft spot with Dean, just as Dean knows Balthazar is with him. It only feels fair to push it now when Dean is pushing right back.

Dean sighs, gripping his thighs. "Sure," he responds tightly. "I'll think about it."

Castiel hands the plate back to Dean one final bite remaining and offers him a conceding smile. " _Awesome_."

**:::**

Castiel doesn't contact Balthazar until nearly ten days after he first showed up, unannounced, at Castiel's apartment. He does so with shaking hands and a pounding heart, but Balthazar doesn't seem to notice, giving Castiel the address to his studio like no time has passed between them at all.

On the day they've arranged to meet, Castiel smokes a string of cigarettes as he sits waiting for his cab. If he had any weed left, he'd have smoked it by now, but he hasn't bought any more since things got serious with Dean. It'd probably be a bad idea to show up at Balthazar's place of work high anyhow.

He takes a generous puff just as the cab pulls up and puts the cigarette out on the sidewalk, staring at the car for a good few seconds before willing himself to get inside. He gives the driver the address and rests his head against the seat, reminding himself to breathe.

Balthazar's studio is in the ritzy downtown area. It's on the third floor of some renovated warehouse, and for a moment, Castiel stares up at the building in longing. He wasn't a print photographer like Balthazar, but just knowing Balt is going places with his photography has Castiel wishing, even if for the barest of seconds, he'd continued with his own.

There are days he aches to be behind the lens again.

After a moment, when he finally feels able, he takes a deep breath and enters the building.

Balthazar's studio is teeming with people. There are half naked models everywhere, some bare-chested, others clad in just their underwear, and a heavy lyric-free music pulses from some unseen speakers.

It's bright and loud ,and at once Castiel appreciates how easy it is for him to conceal himself in the ocean of chaos.

Balthazar is right in the middle of it all, of course, snapping photos, shouting orders, moving models around with a hand on their back and a charming smile plastered to his face. He's the same, schmoozy bastard Castiel befriended in college, and it has the corners of Castiel's mouth tugging up into a small smile.

As he gawks at the scene before him, a leggy woman with green eyes dressed in a lacy black bra and underwear saunters past him. She winks at him, her crooked smile all sultry and sharp – like she knows she's attractive – and he squirms uncomfortably.

"Hands off her, Cassie," Balthazar calls out across the room, "that one's with me."

"That one's _name_ is Bela. And she's with whomever she _chooses_ ," the model quips back in her silken British accent.

"Yes, love," Balthazar responds, camera already to his face again, "of course."

Bela shakes her head and places a hand on her hip. "You must be the long-lost friend Balt's been waxing poetic about all day," she says easily, like she's not standing there in her underwear.

"He has?"

"Sure," she says. "Cassie this, Cassie that. For a second I thought you were another woman."

Castiel shifts nervously on his feet. He doesn't know what to do with his hands or where to look, and the way Bela's studying him – like she could rob him blind and not feel a lick of remorse – is not easing his anxieties in the least.

"Bels," Balthazar chides as he approaches, "I told you, he's not a talker, scoot along darling, leave him alone."

Bela's arms fold over her chest, a look of defiance crossing her face, and Balthazar sighs, dropping his hands to his side. " _Please_ ," he relents.

Bela's smile is broad. "That's more like it, isn't it?" She waves a goodbye to Castiel, winking at him again, and disappears into a sea of skin and lace, her stilettos clacking on the wooden floor as she goes.

"That woman, a real pain in my arse she is," Balthazar mutters as he watches her walk away. His eyes and voice are fond in a way Castiel can relate to, and he smiles something small as he thinks about Dean.

Balthazar turns back to him, waving his camera in the air. "I'm nearly done here then we can go for a drink, yeah?"

Castiel nods. "Alright." He follows Balthazar into the heart of the studio, standing just behind the other man's shoulder, watching him as he works. It's a fluid dance Balthazar and the models do, and Castiel's fascinated by the structure of it all. He was never interested in print work, preferring to capture his subjects in their natural environment, but there's definitely something about it that's appealing. You work until you get a proper shot, endless amounts of chances to make everything look perfect.

Castiel liked his shoots raw and untouched. Sometimes he got suitable material, sometimes he didn't. But that was part of the appeal.

After several minutes, Balthazar straightens and holds his camera out to Castiel. "You want to snap a few, Cassie? I imagine it's been awhile for you with how bloody uncomfortable you look."

Castiel stares at the camera, held outstretched by Balthazar's steady hand. He doesn't think, just acts, reaching out and grasping the familiar weight firmly in his hands. A brief tremor runs through him as he stares down at the camera.

It's been so long.

Balthazar watches him, waiting for Castiel to make a decision, and nearly every fiber of his being is screaming at Castiel to hand it back, keep himself in check. Another part of him, a part he doesn't recognize – or at least hasn't heard in a very long time – pushes him forward.

He puts his eye to the viewfinder.

For a moment all he can concentrate on is the heavy jaggedness of his breath. What he sees at first glance are not models, or a studio, but a flash of stadium, sun flares cutting across his lens, and an open blue sky stretching out in front of him. He lowers the camera and takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory. _Not here_ , he tells himself, _not now_.

Balthazar's hand curls around Castiel's elbow, his eyes soft and knowing. "Take a minute to breathe, won't you?"

Castiel nods, grateful for the interruption.

Balthazar approaches a table off to the side, one with fruit platters and unopened champagne, and pulls four bottles off the tabletop. He carries them to the backdrop, handing them to various models and instructs them to crack them open.

"Like Spring Break in Cabo," he tells them all, quirking a smile and moving out of the way.

Castiel watches numbly as the scene unfolds.

The bottles are opened, champagne spilling out onto the floor, and the models begin passing the bottles around, smiling, laughing, a few of them kissing, and soon Balthazar is back at Castiel's side.

"You remember the parties at University," he shouts gleefully over the music and laughter.

"The ones I never attended?" Castiel calls back.

Balthazar nods letting out a laugh and turns Castiel to face the models with his hands on Cas's shoulders, firm and encouraging.

When Castiel gets behind the lens this time, all he sees are models.

He stills his body and snaps his first frame in almost two years.

After that he shoots without pause, frame after frame until the champagne is gone and the models are sticky and drenched.

"That's a wrap!" Balthazar yells, and for a minute Castiel can only stand and marvel at the buzz in his head, the sense memory curling around his frame, like he never put his camera down in the first place.

He's often wondered what it would be like to start taking photos again. And now, thanks to pushy, smug Balthazar, he knows.

~

Balthazar takes Castiel to a nearby bar, brighter and less smoky than Shurley's. They settle into a booth, one tucked in the corner per Castiel's request, and Castiel flicks through a menu as Balthazar observes him from across the table.

Without the loud music and mostly naked models to buffer their conversation, Castiel suddenly doesn't know what to say. He's sure Balthazar does though, and that thought alone is enough to terrify him into silence.

"It's been _years,_ and you're going to hide yourself behind a menu for ten minutes before you even look at me properly?" Balthazar questions. He isn't angry, Castiel knows this, but he is right and that annoys Castiel. He folds his menu closed and sets it on the tabletop.

"I thought I would know what to say," he admits, chewing at his bottom lip.

Balthazar waves a hand at him. "You don't have to know what to say, Cassie," he explains. "I just wanted to see you. Catch up. Nothing more."

Castiel nods but remains silent.

"Was that the first time you've photographed since-?" He doesn't say the words, for which Castiel's grateful, but they still hang in the air between them, silently trumpeting their presence.

Castiel raises his menu again. "Yes," he answers quietly.

"How'd it feel?"

Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates the question. For a moment he had felt... _normal_ again. Like a whirlwind of hurt hadn't whipped through his life and left in its wake nothing but a broken man with nothing to live for. It had felt right.

"Good," he finally responds.

Balthazar smiles, nods. "It never leaves you, you know? The passion. If it's truly there in the first place, it's always there. No matter what."

"Yeah," Castiel agrees with a nod. He's missed the art for a very long time now, but the hurt was always more than the urge to pick up a camera again.

"So, _Dean_ ," Balthazar treads, settling back into his booth. Castiel's eyes flick over the top of his menu, and he catches the other man's knowing smile.

"Yes," Castiel says, "Dean." His heart flutters in his chest, a sensation he's growing more familiar with as of late, and he quips a smile. _Dean_.

Balthazar shakes his head. "I always knew you had it in you."

At this Castiel frowns, closing his menu and studying Balthazar just as persistently as the other man surveys him. "Had what in me?"

"The ability to fall in love!"

Castiel feels himself flush from his cheeks to his chest and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Balthazar's eyebrows cant downwards, and he frowns. "You aren't in love with him?"

"I-" It's not as if the word has never crossed his mind in association with Dean--it has, and quite frequently in the last several weeks--it's just that he's nowhere near ready to sort out what it means. He's only just getting used to being in the same room with Dean without first having numbed himself to a barely functioning adult. Love seems like something so shadowed and out of reach. "I don't know," he eventually provides.

Balthazar eyes him for a beat. "Well you'll figure it out. But just between you and me, Cassie, that boy of yours definitely knows how he feels about you. And if the way I saw him looking at you is anything to go by, that little L-word you're so afraid of is definitely on his mind."

Castiel sighs. "I know," he says.

"Does that worry you?"

It doesn't, it never has, but he worries it will soon become an issue between them. An issue he can't solve. "No," he begins. "Dean has always been there. He's always-" He's _always_ seemed to care about Castiel. But explaining that seems impossible. Castiel doesn't even understand it himself. "He's always been there," he finishes, somewhat lamely.

Balthazar doesn't push for further explanation though, simply nodding. "So, he knows about-"

" _No_." Castiel's answer is quick, sharp, and Balthazar's responding glance is tinged with disappointment but void of judgment.

"If he's important to you, he should know, Cas," Balthazar says quietly. “It's kind of a big part of who you are now, isn't it? He can help.”

Castiel averts his eyes to the table where he rubs the tips of his fingers against the unfinished looking top. He's known for a while if he wants to truly let Dean in he would have to dig up his long since buried issues, but finding a time when he's felt ready has been nonexistent. "I know," he agrees. "I just don't know how to tell him."

A waitress comes and takes their order, and their conversation turns to lighter topics, Bela, and the upcoming holidays, and Balthazar's busy life. Castiel melts into the evening with Balt, finding a separation between the memories Balthazar's brought with him and the people they are now, and finds it surprisingly easy to tamper any anxieties he thought he might have meeting with his old friend.

When Balthazar tucks him into a cab sometime later, Castiel contemplates the whole way home how best to tell Dean everything about himself without completely coming undone.


	13. Chapter 13

When Dean walks into Engine House No. 18, he's hit with a wave of memories from all those years ago, when he was fifteen and stealing the Impala when his dad was too drunk to notice so he could get his volunteer hours in.

He'd picked a station on the other side of town, so it was less likely for John to find out, and as he looks around now, it's almost like he never left.

But he did, and unannounced, too.

He asks for Captain Miller, the gruff man's picture still hanging on the wall behind the front desk, his age-old Fu Manchu mustache still framing his mouth and that same tired sarcasm Dean grew to appreciate written in his expression. Dean smiles privately to himself with a shake of his head. The man was a real dry humored type of guy, but he'd always taken care of his crew with efficiency and respect.

As he waits, Dean lets his eyes scan over the photos of the other firefighters that hang below Captain Miller's. Some he recognizes, some he doesn't. His stomach twists itself into a knot when he wonders if his photo will ever be up there, too.

When the captain steps out of his office, he stares long and hard at Dean. His hair's grown lighter with age, his face a bit fuller now than it was back then, but other than that he looks like the same man Dean spoke to as a teenager just with a little bit of extra mileage on him.

"Winchester, right?" he barrels after a moment or two.

Dean nods, unsure of whether it's a good or a bad thing the captain remembers his name. "Yessir," he responds automatically, easily falling back into his militaristic upbringing.

The captain grunts. "You're taller."

"Late growth spurt," Dean offers with a nervous laugh.

Captain Miller snickers and drops his large frame into the rolling office chair behind the front desk. His eyes flick to the paperwork on the desktop, then back up to Dean. "I assume you're here with a purpose," the man says.

"Uh- yeah." Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck in an anxious fashion then shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting any further. "I know the chances of you wanting to take another gamble on me are probably slim to none, but I thought I'd ask anyway."

The captain quirks a brow. "You wanna volunteer again?"

"Yessir." Dean hates the way his voice cracks around the words, but he feels so out of his element in his nicer clothes, free of his usual adornment. He'd wanted to make a good impression, but leaving home without it all was like leaving behind his security blanket.

The captain looks thoughtful, surveying Dean's face with his lips quirked to the side. "Why now?" he questions after a beat.

"What?"

"Why now? Why are you coming back now? It's been hell, ten years? Why now?"

Dean's stomach plummets. It's a relevant question just not one he has an answer to. "I uh-," he waits for the perfect response to come, but the only thing that comes to mind is the same thing that's been playing on a loop in his head since the day after Halloween. "I want to be a firefighter, sir," he admits. And who knows, maybe it's not good enough. But it's the barest truth there is, and if Captain Miller says no, Dean will go on to the next station and the next and the next.

For a moment he thinks that's it. The captain doesn't look impressed or sympathetic, and Dean's about ready to just show himself out when the man speaks again. "And before? When you left without telling anybody? What was that about?"

"My dad wasn’t doing so great," Dean answers automatically. "I was taking care of him and my brother."

"How's your daddy now?"

For half a second Dean almost lies. He hates playing the sob story card, would rather earn things just like everybody else in the world without people giving him things out of sympathy. But then the captain eyes him curiously, like he knows what's going on in Dean's head, and he blurts out the truth. "He died five years ago."

Commiseration flashes through the captain's eyes, but he doesn't speak it, merely offers Dean a nod, and Dean's grateful for it.

"You got an education?"

"GED," Dean answers proudly. He learned a long time ago not to be ashamed of his lack of high school diploma. He knew the answers to those questions just like every other high school graduate, and that was something to be proud of.

"And college? You gotta degree?"

"No, sir."

"Gonna need one of those to be a firefighter, son."

Dean nods, his hopes soaring again. The captain hasn't said no yet. That's got to count for something.

"Not gonna up and leave on me again, are ya?"

"No, sir. Got my head on straight this time."

The captain nods and stands, crossing from behind the desk to a stairwell just to the right of them. He motions for Dean to follow and shouts up the stairs in a bellowing tone, "Laffite. Get down here. Got a greenie for you to harass."

"Wait," Dean breathes, stopping where he stands to stare at the captain's back. "You're takin' me back?"

"Isn't that what you came here for, boy?"

"Well yeah, but I didn't-"

The captain takes the few steps back to where Dean is and claps him on the shoulder. "Listen, son. I believe in second chances, okay? This is yours. Don't screw it up."

If Dean had no reserve for human decency, he would have hugged the captain in that moment, long and hard, too. Instead Dean smiles wide and lets his body relax. "I won't," he promises. "Thank you, Captain."

After a moment a burly man appears in the stairwell, eyes questioning. He's got a broad chest and light blue eyes and looks like the type of guy who's tough around the edges and soft in the middle.

"Winchester, this is Benny Laffite. He's the lieutenant here. You remember what that means?"

"I have to listen to him?" Dean offers.

This draws a laugh from the captain and Benny. "That's right. Now, Benny's gonna show you around, reacclimate you. I want you here Monday morning at 8 am sharp. That gonna be a problem?"

"I'll be here," Dean confirms, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "With bells on."

The captain lets out a snicker. "Skip the bells, son. All we need is you." He claps Benny on the shoulder. "He's all yours, Lieutenant."

As the captain waddles off, Dean wants to call out after him, thank him again. But feeling like it'd be too overzealous of him, he just watches the man go with an indebted smile on his face. After a minute or so Benny reaches out and squeezes Dean's elbow.

"You ready to see the place?" he asks, his Southern drawl warm and welcoming.

Dean looks at the lieutenant. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm ready."

~

After getting things sorted at the station, Dean heads straight for Castiel's apartment. It's only a few blocks away, and Sam's not out of school yet, so he snags the opportunity to spend some extra time with Cas.

He's been somewhat distant since Balthazar showed up, never having much to say about the guy; Dean trusts him when he says there was never anything between them, but he can't get over the fact that Balthazar seems to know a different Castiel than Dean does.

Castiel _Novak_.

Cas is wearing a [black and white striped sweater](https://static.pullandbear.net/2/photos/2018/I/0/2/p/9559/550/401/9559550401_1_1_3.jpg?t=1536673813608) today that Dean can't tell if he picked up in the men's or woman's department, along with his favorite pair of plum skinny jeans and mismatched socks. His hair is an absolute mess, like he ran a towel over it when it was wet and left it that way, but his smile is warm when he finds Dean standing in his doorway.

"You look nice," he says, a confused air in his tone.

For a minute Dean forgets all about his anxieties and draws Castiel in for a kiss. Cas’s jaw is scruffy, but the hairs are soft beneath Dean's fingers, and Dean likes the way it feels to kiss him this way.

"You don't own a damn razor?" he asks when they pull apart because bickering is just what they do.

"Shaving is such a tedious job, Dean. There are so many other things I could be doing instead of shaving." He pushes the door shut behind Dean and heads for the kitchenette where he's frying something in a pan.

"Yeah," Dean mutters, easing out of his jacket and tossing it over the couch, "like sleeping or smoking."

Castiel shrugs. "I didn't say they were productive things."

"So, you gonna grow your hair out, too? Have a man-bun like Sammy? You've probably got more useless shit to do than get your hair cut, yeah?"

Castiel smiles at him tight lipped and smug-eyed. "Maybe I will.”

"And maybe I'll snip that thing right off when you're sleeping."

Castiel turns his back to Dean, flipping whatever it is he's got in there onto the opposite side and wiggling it in the pan a little. "Are you hungry?" he questions, turning back to Dean.

"What're you making?"

"Eggplant."

Dean scowls. "I'm not hungry for eggplant," he counters self-righteously. Fucking Cas and his fucking healthy crap.

Castiel huffs at him, shaking his head. "Dean, it's fried. There's hardly any nutritional value left at all. It definitely meets your requirements of artery clogging and entirely unhealthy."

It doesn't smell half bad, honestly, and Dean kinda likes trying the stuff Cas makes. "I'll try it," Dean relents.

"How kind of you." He turns his back again, and Dean's eyes rove over the counter top. Lying right in the middle of it is a manila envelope addressed to Cas. But not his Cas, Castiel Novak.

Dean's stomach twists, and he reaches for the package. "Hey, Cas," he finds himself saying even though he only meant to look, "what's this?"

Castiel casts a glance over his shoulder. When he sees the envelope in Dean's hand, his features cloud over with something unreadable. "Oh."

"Hey, you know what? Never mind," Dean is quick to say. "It's none of my business. I guess I was just surprised it got to you is all."

"What do you mean?" Castiel wonders, his face pulled into a confused frown.

"Well, it's addressed to Castiel Novak," Dean states, picking up the package and tapping the address all-knowingly. His heart is screaming at him to shut up, let it lie, but his brain is already instructing his mouth to move. "Your last name is Edlund."

Castiel stares at the package for a long moment before nodding. "Yes," he says, "you're right." He flicks off the burner and slides the skillet onto a stone hot pad, prodding the eggplant with a fork before crossing to stand behind the bar top.

Dean feels his face burn, but it's too late to take back the words now, so he just watches the taught line of Castiel's shoulders and hopes to God he didn't fuck anything up.

"They're pictures I took," Castiel says after a moment, eyes trained on the envelope. "When I was with Balt, he- Anyway, that's what's inside."

Dean frowns. Since when does Cas have an interest in photography? "Oh."

"You can look at them if you'd like." The words are calculated, like Castiel said them with just enough control to avoid sounding hesitant.

Interest unbidden Dean flips open the envelope and slides the photographs out. The first thing he sees is a handful of bare-chested models – men and women alike – and a few more in their underwear. "Whoa. I mean, _wow_. These are really-" he stops, moves to the next photo, "really good, Cas."

"You don't have to say that, Dean," Castiel points out, turning to scoop the eggplant out of the skillet and onto a couple of plates. Dean can't tell if he's hurt the guy's feelings or not, but he feels like shit regardless. Castiel didn't have to share the photos, he _chose_ to.

Dean looks at the photographs again. This time he ignores the models (...mostly) and instead takes in the angle and movement of the images. There's something so _Cas_ in them that Dean identifies almost right away. And now that the initial shock has passed, even Dean, who knows nothing about photography, can see they really are _good_ photos.

When Castiel slides a plate across the countertop towards him, Dean looks up, hoping the sincerity he feels is clear on his face. "Seriously, babe, these are _really_ awesome. I didn't know you were into this."  

"I used to be," Castiel explains, handing Dean a fork. "I was a photojournalism major in college. Before I dropped out, that is. Anyway, Balt and I, we met each other in Intro to Photog, a required class for the major. We had both been behind a lens for most of our lives already and were bored out of our minds listening to our professor drone on about aperture and shutter speed."

"So, you wanted to take pictures for magazines and stuff?" Dean wonders, his curiosity moving his mouth for him. Until just a few minutes ago, he never knew Castiel was, at one point in his life or another, a photographer. But now that he does, it makes so much sense he can't see Cas doing anything else.

Castiel shakes his head. "I never was interested in print; that was always Balthazar's love. I wanted to be a documentary photographer, photograph subjects in their own habitats, un-posed, unpaid, just... there. More National Geographic than Vogue."

Dean glances back down at the pictures one more time, absorbing all the little details he didn't see before and cataloging them away as pieces of Cas he never knew existed. He may never have them all, but he'll cling to the ones he's given like they were meant just for him.

"Why don't you do this anymore?" Dean questions quietly. He waits as Castiel cuts off a piece of his eggplant and chews it, slowly, probably to give himself more time.

"I'm scared," he admits.

"But you're really good."

"I _was_ really good; a long time ago. I don't know if I'm that person anymore, I don't-" he shakes his head, his expression darkening. "I don't even know if I can face that person long enough to find out."

And now they've tipped eerily into that part where Dean knows very little about what's being said, and Castiel retreats inside his secrets. It's a place Dean hates to be, barren for himself, and seemingly over crowded for Cas.

"Well for what it's worth, which I know is basically nothing, I think you'd be great doing this again. I can tell you love it or did once."

Castiel's smile is small, but Dean's relieved to see it anyway. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean finally takes his first bite of the eggplant Cas made and is surprised to find it's pretty damn delicious. "Okay, this is actually pretty good," he says around a mouthful. "Maybe I should eat fried vegetables more often."

Castiel shakes his head and performs one of his world-renowned eye rolls. "I find it hard to believe you've never had fried eggplant. And it's not a vegetable, Dean. It's in the nightshade family."

"I'm not even gonna pretend to know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Technically, it's a fruit."

"Well whatever it is," Dean replies, shoveling more into his mouth, "fried up like this? It's good."

As they eat Dean tells Castiel about visiting the station and Captain Miller taking him back as a volunteer. Castiel responds with a quiet smile, brimming with pride, and Dean feels happy all over knowing he did something that could make Castiel smile at him like that.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Dean catches the time and realizes he needs to head out, so he can have dinner ready for when Sam gets home.

He's got one foot out the door when Castiel tugs him back inside and wraps his arms around Dean's neck. "I'm really proud of you for going to the station today, Dean," he mutters against Dean's lips. "You're going to be a remarkable fireman."

Dean smiles into the kiss, his hands finding Cas's waist. "Thanks, baby."

Castiel hums sending a deep vibration rattling through Dean's breastbone. "I'll see you later?"

"'Course." As Dean heads down the hall once more, he smiles to himself when he doesn't hear the click of Castiel's door until he's nearing the stairwell. So maybe Cas does have some giant looming secret that's been an elephant in the room since Dean first walked into the record store that day so many months ago. Regardless of who Cas is now, or who he was before, Dean is totally, 100%, irreversibly all in.

Dean makes his way down the sidewalk towards the Impala. It's cool out now, winter rapidly approaching, but the thin night air feels good against his overheated face.

Cas always makes him feel overheated.

As he rounds the driver's side of his car, a shiny silver Benz pulls up behind him. It idles by the curb for a while before Balthazar steps out of the driver's side, and Dean frowns.

"Hey," Dean offers as Balthazar stares down at his phone, clicking away with one hand and fumbling with the fob on his key chain with the other. His car makes a chirping sound, and Balthazar pockets his keys.

When Balthazar doesn't respond, Dean takes a step closer. "I said, 'hey.'" He says with a little more force.

Balthazar doesn't look up. "You did," he replies. "Twice. Good for you."

He kinda feels like slugging the guy, just on principle, but Cas would probably hate him forever for punching his friend, so Dean keeps his fist to himself. "You mind telling me what you're doing here?"

Technically, it's none of his business. Castiel has every right to have friends, but there's something about Balthazar specifically that sets Dean's teeth on edge. He makes Castiel go all quiet and thoughtful. And maybe it has a little bit to do with the jealousy Dean feels over Balthazar knowing more about Castiel than Dean does. Maybe.

Balthazar turns his phone off and slides it in his back pocket before finally looking up at Dean. "First of all," he begins, and Dean inwardly cringes. The guy's smart British accent makes Dean's toes curl in annoyance. "Get your knickers out of a twist, I'm only here to say goodbye. Second of all- actually no. That's all I had to say."

"Oh," Dean says, rocking back on his heels. "He didn't mention you were stopping by."

"Why would he? He doesn't know. I'm leaving earlier than originally planned but didn't want to do so without saying goodbye."

Dean nods, studying Balthazar's face. He contemplates asking – despite how slimy Dean thinks the guy is – about Cas and who he was back when they were in college together, what happened that's made him who he is today.

But Dean doesn't want to learn about Cas from Balthazar. He wants to learn about Castiel from Cas.

Dean runs a hand over his jaw. "Well, have a safe trip, or y'know, whatever. I'm sure it was good for Cas to see you." He pulls open his door and makes to get inside just as Balthazar's calling out to him. When he turns, the other man looks serious, concerned almost.

"This goes without saying, but take good care of him, Dean."

"Will do," Dean responds honestly. He stands a little straighter as Balthazar nods once at him and then takes off in the direction of Castiel's apartment.

Balthazar disappears inside the building long before Dean heads for home.

~

He has dinner on the table by the time Sam gets home. They eat mostly in silence, Sam interjecting a few comments about school here and there, but when Dean reaches for Sam's empty plate to clean up, Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"You okay, Dean?" His expression is brimming on sympathetic.

Dean's gaze locks with his brothers’ for a beat before he looks away. "Yes. No. Fuck, I don't know."

"What's wrong?"

Dean stares at the wall just beside Sam's shoulder, eyeing the imperfections and inconsistencies as his mind whirls with thoughts about Cas. "I'm just- thinking about Cas," he admits reluctantly.

Sam shakes his head. "Okay?"

"You know how he is with his secrets, Sam. He-" Dean huffs a sigh. "He won't let anybody in. He won't let-"

Sam's face has gone soft with understanding, his eyes dropping just like a fucking puppy dog, and Dean feels like punching something. "He won't let _you_ in."

"Not entirely, no," Dean grumbles, staring at the table top. There's a smidge of gravy from the shepherd's pie he made globbed next to his plate. He should wipe it up, but he doesn't.

"Not to play devil's advocate or anything, but you're not the most open guy, Dean. How can you expect him to spill his guts to you when you never do the same?"

Dean laughs, no humor behind it. "He knows everything, Sam. Thanks for that, by the way."

"Oh."

Dean doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't. There's too much to explain and too many unanswered questions, and he feels like he might be making a mountain out of a molehill but also like Cas is keeping him out for no reason. He isn't sure which bothers him more.

He doesn't want to talk about it.

But.

"Did you know Cas used to have a different last name?" Dean blurts. " _Novak_." The word is beginning to taste like venom on his tongue.

Sam frowns. "No."

"That's what his friend – Balthazar, that British dude I told you about? That's what he called him. Castiel Novak."

Sam responds slowly, like he knows his words aren't accurate even as he speaks them. "Name changes happen all the time, Dean. Maybe it's nothing."

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "If it was nothing why didn't he just say so when I mentioned it to him, Sammy?"

Sam falls quiet, his brows pulled down in thought.

Dean stands, pulling the dishes from the table and carrying them to the sink. He drops them in and turns to rest against the lip of the counter, folding his arms across his chest.

"The thing I don't get is, he's cryptic one second and sharing-and-caring the next. He avoided the last name thing tonight but told me all about how he was a photojournalism major in college; hell, he even showed me pictures he's taken."  

"It sounds like he wants you to know, Dean," Sam offers. "Maybe it's just never been the right time. Like with me and Stanford."

Dean inwardly winces at the memory, but it passes quickly, too much on his mind to leave room for the sting that still comes with the mention of Stanford.

The kitchen falls silent. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut tight. "The one guy, right?" he comments after a beat. He says it with a laugh but feels no humor towards it. Anyone else and none of this would even matter. But, the one guy he goes and falls deep for is the one who's angrier and more closed off than even Dean.

"Have you thought about looking him up?" Sam wonders, his voice quiet, tentative.

"'Course I have Sammy, but what type of guy would that make me? Cas trusts me not to so, how can I?"

Sam nods. "Yeah," he sighs, "I get it."

Dean turns his back to Sam, starting the hot water in the sink and shoving the plug in the drain. _Molehill_ , he tells himself. _Molehill_. If Cas wants him to know, he'll tell him. Until then, Dean will just... deal.

Sam comes to stand behind him, letting one of his giganotosaurus paws land on Dean's shoulder. "I'll get the dishes, Dean, you go take a shower or something."

"You saying I stink, Sam?" It's a failed attempt at a joke, but Dean's a little drained at this point.

"No, I'm saying you're usually in a better mood after a shower." He gently maneuvers himself between Dean and the sink. "Not that I want to know _why_ ," he rushes to add, "but you know, whatever."

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean says with a smile, walking backwards towards the hall to get Sam's reaction. "Don't tell me you haven't discovered the joys of 'unwinding' in the shower yet."

Sam stares at Dean for a drawn-out moment, his face a cross between horrified and disgusted, and Dean lets out a laugh.

"How are we even related?" Sam mutters to himself with a shake of his head. He turns back to the sink and doesn't acknowledge Dean again.

Dean chuckles all the way down the hall.

~

He only feels slightly better after a shower. He's alone with his thoughts now, Sam disappearing into his own bedroom before Dean was out of the bathroom, and he lies on his bed staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours.

When his eyes begin to burn and thoughts about Cas are a thick impending cloud hanging directly over his head again, Dean reaches for his phone and pulls up a search bar, _Castiel Novak_ blazing at the tips of his fingers.

Rather than typing anything though he just stares at the screen for a good few seconds before exiting out of it in a huff and pulling up a text to Cas instead.

_Saw Balthazar on my way out, did he find you?_

It's a couple of minutes before Castiel replies. _Yes. :)_

Dean snickers at the emoticon and wonders where in the hell to go from here.

~

He doesn't remember falling asleep. It'd been somewhere between considering begging Cas for answers and convincing himself he didn't deserve to know in the first place followed swiftly by berating himself for making such a big deal out of it all.

His phone beeps at him, jolting him awake, and he runs a hand over his face, groans at the ache in his neck that's come from falling asleep in an awkward position.

Dean fumbles for his phone, feeling for it on the shelf next to his desk where he remembers leaving it last, and waits for some of the fog to clear from his brain before unlocking it. When he holds it in front of him the screen is painfully bright, and he squints at it through the darkness of his bedroom.

It's a message from Sam, no words, just a few links. Somehow Dean knows where they'll lead, knows they hold all the answers, and almost doesn't open them on principle alone.

Almost.

Without giving himself time to talk himself out of it, Dean clicks the first link and is directed to an Instagram account under Castiel's name. The last update hasn't been for a couple of years, but the account still has thousands of followers. He scrolls through the photos, taking in faces, and animals, and things that at one point or another meant something to Castiel. Even if it was just for a second. It's one more piece to the puzzle that Dean knows he should quit trying to put together.

Saving the link for later, he clicks on the second link, and the website for a newspaper pops up. His heart flutters in anxiousness as the page loads revealing an obituary.

For a moment he's confused, the picture at the top of the page looks so much like Castiel, but at the same time wildly different. It's Castiel's face, but he's smiling wide and gummy in a way Dean's never seen Cas smile before. After a moment his eyes catch the name under the picture and he scans the page with his heart pounding and a ringing in his ears, and everything slots itself into place.

_James "Jimmy" Edlund Novak_

_Pontiac, Illinois_

_Our precious son and brother was tragically taken from us on November 22_ _nd_ _in Evanston, Illinois. He was born on July 10, 1987 in Pontiac, Illinois. He is survived by his mother, Naomi Novak, his father, Michael Novak, and his twin brother, Castiel Benjamin Novak._

_Jimmy grew up in Pontiac, Illinois where he had many friends, was a star athlete, and a straight A student. At 18 he went on to study at Northwestern University to obtain a degree in business. There Jimmy was also on the track team and a graceful leader to everyone he met. He was a bright presence and friend to all those around him and will be missed by any who were blessed enough to have him in their lives._

_Funeral services will be held Saturday, November 29_ _th_ _at 10:30 am at Adler Mortuary with a viewing from 9am to 10am prior to the service. Online condolences can be sent to www.adlermortuary.com._

Dean blinks at the picture again, the one of not Castiel, but... _Jimmy_.

Castiel's twin brother.

They're so strikingly similar that it makes Dean ache for reasons he can't explain. Their eyes are different though, he thinks, as he studies the photo, not the color, but the story behind them.

With shaking hands, Dean goes for the final link. He's directed to an article reporting on the tragic death of a twenty-one-year-old Northwestern University athlete who died on the track during an impromptu practice. His eyes skim the words, barely reading, but his brain snags on the important phrases, _sudden cardiac death_ ... _joined by his brother_ ... _CPR performed by fellow teammate Balthazar Roche_...

Dean stops reading – not able to stomach any more – and thinks about Castiel's tattoo, the heart on his chest with the jagged lines going through it. _Sudden cardiac death._

_Sudden death._

As he lies there, information swimming through his brain, memories of his own bang around the words and get mixed in until it's all a blur of shouldering Castiel's pain as well as reliving his own.

Dean's seen two of the many faces of Death, knows what it feels like to spend agonizing hours wondering, _Is this it? Are they gone?_ Because while he and Dad, and Sammy were safe, Dean had no idea if his mom would be. And so, he sat and wondered, even at four years old, if, after all was said and done, he'd still have a mom or if she'd been taken by the flash of flames and smother of smoke. And it was awful and all sorts of fucked up, but then John was gone in an instant. Seeing it all happen was numbing. Almost like there was no time to process, no time to mourn, or come to terms.

Nothing prepares you for the one-minute-they're-there-the-next-minute-they're-gone tragedy of sudden death, and it's the type of pain that never really leaves you, stays in your bones for a lifetime, a constant ache in your chest regardless of how many years it's been.

Sometimes it dulls over time, but it's never completely gone. Like a lingering strand of the person you lost.

And from the looks of it, Castiel lost someone big.

Dean pulls the obituary up again and studies Jimmy's face some more, guilt for ever telling Sam in the first place sitting like a tangible weight on his chest. But this isn't Sam's fault. He only did what Dean would have eventually done. No, this is all on Dean. He never should have opened his mouth or bit at the bait Sam tossed him. He never should have, and now that he has, there's no un-learning what he knows.

It was the one thing about himself that Castiel's protected with a fierceness that makes Dean tired just being around, and now, easy as you please, Dean's gone and taken that from him without Cas even knowing.

Betrayal at its finest.

With enough self-hatred to move a mountain rolling through him, Dean sits up, lingers on the edge of his bed for a beat, and pads to his dresser where an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey is calling his name.

As the first splash of warm liquid rolls over his tongue, Dean wonders how in the hell his day went from elation to this. But really, he knows better than to wonder because this right here, this ugly, dark, seething he feels towards his own fucked up self is just a part of him that will never go away.

About the time Dean realizes he’s either going to have to keep this from Cas or risk losing him by confessing what he’s done is when Dean takes his final pull from the bottle and slumps onto his side, letting his eyes slide closed – alcohol laden – until the sun comes up.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean wakes to Sam shoving open the curtains and looming over his bed with a disapproving grimace on his face.

Dean groans, rubs a hand over his eyes. "What the fuck, Sammy." He smacks his lips and turns on his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and ignoring the alcohol sloshing around in his belly.

"If I'd known you were gonna drink yourself into oblivion over it, I wouldn't have sent you the links, Dean."

"You shouldn't have sent me them in the first place, asshole," Dean grumbles, no malice behind his words.

Sam settles himself on the edge of Dean's bed, his hulking frame creating an uncomfortable dip in the mattress. Goddamn man-child. "You're welcome," he counters.

Nothing more is said, and for a minute Dean thinks Sam's going to let him just lie there and be a piece of shit in peace; but then his brother is opening his trap again and making more words come out, and Dean seriously considers clocking him over the head with the bottle lying next to him. And isn't that rich? Dean swore he'd never become his dad, but John Winchester's just about the only man Dean's ever seen take a bottle to bed with him. Until now.

"Dean," Sam says like it's the second time in a few seconds.

"What?" Dean doesn't mean to be short, but his head is pounding, his stomach hurts, and he's in an entirely too shitty of a situation to keep his manners in check.

"I said,  _ what are you going to do? _ "

Dean breathes into his pillow, focuses on the warm patch his breath leaves behind on the fabric. With some effort he rolls onto his back, groaning at the creak in his bones and wishing he were just a little drunker than he is.

"What  _ can _ I do?" he garbles because it's the same damn question he's been asking himself all night and he still doesn't have an answer.

"For starters you can stop beating yourself up over it," Sam offers. "This isn't even remotely your fault, Dean. Just like most of the things you blame yourself for."

Dean throws an arm over his eyes, presses until colors blot against the murky black clouding his vision. "Thanks for the psychological evaluation, college-boy, but it's not fucking helping."

And ever relentless Sam just keeps right on being ever relentless. "Dean," he's using that voice he uses when he's about to give a lecture about loving yourself more and whatever the hell else he thinks is gonna heal the world, and sometimes it's enough to keep Dean going, if begrudgingly so, but not today.

"I don't know, okay, Sam? I don't know what I'm gonna do. I don't fucking know. I just wish I could've-"

"What, stopped it?"

_ Yes _ , Dean thinks; it's a ridiculous thing to want, impossible even, but he wishes he could've stopped a lot of things from happening to the people he cares about. He wishes he could bring his mom back, stop the flames from swallowing her up like she was just another piece of furniture. He wishes he could've made his dad stronger, more capable of dealing with Shit Nobody Asked For – and stopped the goddamn truck barreling down the highway; he wishes he'd given Sammy a better life than he had. He wishes he could have helped Bobby more when his wife was sick, wasting away until she was gone, too. And Jo, losing her dad in the line of duty, and Ellen who's tight smiles and tough love are never enough to fully mask how much she still hurts inside. And now he can add Cas to the list, too. Because he cares about Castiel, so much he doesn't even fully understand it, and knowing he suffered loss, just like Dean, and Sam, and Bobby, and Jo, and Ellen, and so many others, it makes Dean hurt for him.

And yes.

It makes him wish he could've stopped it.

"No," he finally responds because he is so not going there with Sam.

"Then what, Dean?" his brother wonders softly.

Dean sighs, "I don't know, been there for him, I guess. Helped him through it, y'know?"

"You're there for him now," Sam points out because he's just that fucking reasonable.

"It doesn't feel like enough," Dean admits even though he doesn't want to because it  _ doesn't _ feel like enough, and giving that to someone else, letting Sam hear it means maybe Dean doesn't have to solve this on his own like every other goddamn problem in his life.

Sam's face pulls into that knowing frown he does so well, eyes pouring sympathy in Dean's direction, and if Dean weren't such a fucked-up bastard, he might just drill a little hole in the wall he's built up around himself and let some of it pour through. Instead it bounces right off, never penetrating the surface.

"Well you can't stay in here moping forever.”

Dean rolls onto his side, putting his back to Sam and becoming one with his pillow again. "Watch me."

"At least give me the whiskey."

Dean peels one eye open, glaring down the bottle just a few inches away. The thought of having any more now makes his stomach churn, but he might be up for it in a few hours. "No."

He can feel Sam's disappointment rolling off him in waves, but that's just how it's going to have to be right now because Dean is too lost inside his own angst to care.

When Sam finally does leave his room, Dean let's himself drop off the edge again, Jimmy Novak's face floating hauntingly in the peripheral of his dreams, disappearing in bright orange flames, and John Winchester shouting profanities at Dean just before he’s plowed over by a hulking black truck.

~

He wakes again to someone calling his name from his bedroom doorway. The sun is pouring in through his window now with no reservations, and he rubs the back of his hand across his eyes and figures it must be at least nine.

"Dean." Closer now, just across his room.

He's still asleep enough to think Sam's come back to give him more shit so he rolls over with a vengeance and glares at- Cas. Sad, lonely Cas with his big blue eyes and at least a week's worth of scruff. Cas,  _ his Cas _ , wrapped in a terrible fox sweater and skinny jeans cuffed at his ankles like there's a damn flood coming.

Dean's anger leaves him and is replaced with a bone deep sadness that isn't entirely his own. 

"Hey, Cas." Voice too rough to be disguised as anything other than that of a man who's been up drinking for most of the night.

Castiel toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed with Dean, stopping when he sees the bottle practically tucked in the sheets like Dean's new favorite bed companion. "Am I interrupting something?" he wonders. There's amusement in his voice, but questions in his eyes as he surveys Dean's face with that wide-open stare of his.

"Got lonely," Dean replies easily. He snatches the bottle out of the way and reaches behind him to set it on the floor, patting the bed in the now empty space.

"Are you drinking because of Balthazar?" Castiel interrogates point blank, and Dean feels like the bed's gone and disappeared right out from underneath him.

"What?" he remarks with a frown. "No, Cas. Fuck, I'm not drinking because of Balthazar. Why would you think that?"

Castiel, who's still hovering on his hands and knees, sits, folds his legs pretzel style and bites his bottom lip. "You sounded jealous last night in your text," he admits. "There's no reason to be jealous, Dean."

" _ Goddamit _ ," Dean breathes, because he had been jealous of Balthazar, but not for the reason Castiel seems to be thinking. "Cas, I promise, it's not what you're thinking, okay? It was just-" Dean sniffs, edging out the memories of the previous night. "It was just a rough night, thinking about my parents and stuff." And it's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, and Dean feels guilty as shit for even attempting to skirt the real reason behind the half empty bottle of Wild Turkey now lying on its side on the floor.

Castiel nods, understanding crossing his features, and he lies down next to Dean, face to face, his gaze boring into Dean's, so open and prodding like Cas can see right through him. For as closed off as Castiel has always been, Dean feels like the guy can always tell what Dean's thinking.

"So is this a conjugal visit, or..." Dean jokes, tugging Castiel in for a kiss. His mouth is warm, familiar, and Dean falls into it, gives himself over to the lazy prodding of Castiel's tongue and the way his fingers twist in Dean's thin white t-shirt.

"No," Castiel answers. "We're going to the Farmer's Market."

Dean's brow crinkles. "What, you and Sam?"

"No, you and I. Sam's studying."

"Sorry sweetheart, I don't do-" Dean's stopped by Castiel pressing one long finger to his lips and a flash of “Don't Mess with Me, Dean Winchester” in his bright blue eyes. Dean back pedals, silent.

"We're going to the Farmer's Market." And when he seems to think Dean might protest again, his eyes go soft, bottomless. "Please, Dean. I don't want to be alone today."

Something cracks inside Dean. Now that he understands what that means, now that he knows what Castiel sees every night when he closes his eyes, the things Cas does, the things he says, shit like, "I don't want to be alone today," dig in deep beneath Dean's skin, like burs.

"Okay," he agrees quietly, retreating. He pulls Cas close again, presses all the words he can't say into the heat of Castiel's mouth leaving them both breathless and bare.

If Castiel notices a difference in the way Dean kisses him, he doesn't mention it.

Dean showers quickly, tugs on some old jeans and a plaid shirt not bothering to add color to his hair or line his eyes with the smoky dark liner he usually wears. There was a point in his life where he didn't understand who he was without the eccentric get up. It was a part of him, a curtain to hide behind to deter people from what was underneath. But recently, that part of him has become blurred, softened almost. Dulled.

And maybe it has something to do with Cas, or maybe it has nothing to do with him at all, but it wasn't until Cas took a chance on Dean that he's felt even remotely ready to be less brash.

Cas is waiting for him in the kitchen, his slender fingers curled around Dean's favorite coffee mug, his face drooped close to the lip of the ceramic as steam curls into the air. He looks quiet like this, settled somehow with his eyes slid shut, his lashes fanning in two dark silhouettes against his cheekbones, and his hands barely visible from beneath the sleeves of his stupid sweater.

Dean feels a little like a creep just standing there observing the other man, but it's such a rare moment to see Castiel content that Dean's greedy to take in the sight and let it be a balm to his worry that Cas will never be okay.

Castiel breathes deep, and Dean enters the kitchen.

"You made me coffee," he says with a smile, crossing the tiled floor and reaching for the mug.

Castiel pulls the coffee closer to his chest. "I made _ me  _ coffee," he corrects.

"Hey, if we're gonna go prance around some weird ass hippie joint, I'm gonna need a shit load of caffeine."

Castiel puts the mug to his lips and takes a sip, his eyes trained on Dean, a gentle Fuck You seeping out of them as he drinks.

For a minute Dean's stomach twists. He wonders if this is how Castiel was when Jimmy was around or if the I'm a Complete Shit and Proud of It attitude came after he had to relearn how to live his life without his brother.

Dean can't imagine him any other way, doesn't want to imagine him any other way, and so he decides it doesn't matter. Who Cas was then is not who he is now, and who he is now is the Castiel Dean wants to be with and that's really all that matters.

"Probably tastes like shit anyway," Dean grumbles.

"It's no French press," Castiel admits, finally handing the mug over to Dean and leaning himself up against the counter. Dean takes a swig of the hot liquid and makes a big display of sighing his approval just to irritate the guy.

As expected Castiel gives Dean half an eye roll and a minute shake of his head.

After another swallow, Dean hands the mug back. He watches as Cas takes another drink, sunlight pouring over his shoulder from the window behind him, bathing him in gold and white. Looking at him like this, Dean can see the faint smudges of a sleepless night underneath Cas’s eyes, and he mentally kicks himself for not noticing before.

He moves in close to Castiel, wraps his arms around his waist. "Hey," he says quietly.

A small smile alights on Cas’s lips. "Hey."

"You okay?" Dean wonders, reaching up to brush a thumb just beneath Cas’s eye, like he can wipe away the weariness with just one swipe.

Castiel nods, his presence remaining light. "I had a rough night, too," he admits.

Ice clenches around Dean's heart. "More nightmares?"

"Yes."

"How can I fix this?" Dean mutters. He wants to tuck them both away from the world for a while, put up a barricade, keep out all the hurt.

Castiel knits his brow together in concern, one hand coming to rest lightly on Dean's cheek. "It's not up to you to fix." And for one terrifying second, Dean thinks he's given himself away, but then Cas’s lips are insistent on his own, and relief floods him, washing away his anxieties if even for just the briefest of moments.

They pull apart when Sam clears his throat behind them, leaning against the doorframe looking one part amused, two parts worried they're about to transition from Just Kissing to Something More.

"Not that you guys aren't adorable or anything, but you know this is where we eat, right?" Sam says all warning and self-righteous like he's never had a dirty thought in his entire life.

"I thought you said he was studying," Dean points out, not even turning to look at Sam. He quirks a smile at the flush in Cas’s cheeks, like he's actually embarrassed about being caught  _ kissing _ .

"I was," Sam interjects, moving towards the cupboard with the mugs in it and pulling one down. "But I smelled coffee."

"I only made enough for one," Castiel informs Sam, his voice apologetic, and fuck why's he all repentant with Sam when he was nothing but a smug bastard to Dean?

_ I'm a Complete Shit and Proud of It. _

Sam shrugs and moves towards the coffee maker. "I can make more."

Dean and Castiel stand watching him, still pressed in close with only a mug between them. After a beat Sam cranes his neck slowly, looking over his shoulder at them. “What?”

Dean snickers, shakes his head. "Let's go, babe."

Cas sets his mug in the sink and Dean tugs him out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

"Have fun at the Farmer's Market, Dean!" Sam calls out after them, the smugness in his voice reaching all the way down the hall.

"Have fun being a lame ass nerd!" Dean shouts back.

Castiel frowns his distaste, stooping to pick up a canvas backpack resting by the door and yanking his scarf off the coat tree.

Dean guides him out the door, closing it behind them with a definitive click and watches as Cas wraps the scarf around his neck.

"You have a  _ scarf _ ," Dean says, like Cas may not know there's a gigantic loop of wool lying over his shoulders and chest.

"And you don't," Cas snarks back. He pulls a pair of Ray Ban Clubmasters out of his backpack and perches them on his nose before hoisting the backpack over his shoulders and leaving Dean gaping at him as he makes his way to the Impala.

As they climb in and Castiel settles the bag between his feet on the floor of the car, Dean eyes it precariously. "Do I wanna know what's in the backpack?"

Castiel's smile is close mouthed but wide, so fucking pleased with himself Dean doesn't even need an answer.

"My prize," he informs Dean.

"Your what?" Dean frowns as he starts the car, backs out of the driveway.

"You remember our  _ wager _ from Halloween, Dean. If you win I...?" He trails off, obviously waiting for Dean to fill in the blank.

Dean's brain filters through the past several weeks, stopping on the weekend Cas spent at his house not too long ago. "Blow me," Dean finally supplies, regretfully because now he knows what's in that bag and this is  _ so not cool _ .

"And if I win?"

Dean sighs, cranking up the heat and heading in the direction Cas points. "I still think you hustled me," he grumbles.

Castiel ignores him, tugs a shoe box out of the backpack, cradling it like it's his most prized possession. Hell, maybe it is at this point, and Dean's heart sinks. Poor Baby. Her speakers have never stooped to playing anything less than the best. Which always has been and always will be Rock-n-Roll.

Castiel pulls a cassette tape out of the box, his fingers reaching for the EJECT button on the dash. Dean's hand shoots out, wraps around Castiel's wrist. "Wait."

Castiel's eyes are on him now, waiting, smirking, and Dean lets go as he comes to idle at a stop sign. "You know the rule," he tries weakly, but Castiel shakes his head.

"Dean, your rule is ridiculous," he states indignantly, "and your taste in music is archaic." He waves the tape in Dean's face. "This is good  _ modern _ music." He ejects the tape currently in the deck and drops it in his shoe box, "I think you'll like them."

"Don't mix them up!" Dean shouts, his hands itching to reach out and snatch the tape back, hold it close to his chest and make sure no harm ever comes to it. "I don't want to have to dig through your shit just to find my own damn music!"

"Relax, Dean. Everything is labeled." Castiel slides his cassette tape into the deck and puts his box on the floor before looking at Dean expectantly. "What are you waiting for, Winchester? Drive."

Dean glares at Cas, but after a few minutes of Castiel staring defiantly back, Dean puts his foot on the gas and drives.

As they go Castiel tells Dean they're listening to the Black Keys' El Camino album. He gives Dean some stats about the band, small pieces of trivia like the fact that the band started out as a garage band when its two members dropped out of college to make music together, and after a moment, Dean finds himself tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music.

"What are you doing?" Castiel questions with a coy smile on his face. Dean glances over at him, then fixes his eyes back on the road.

"What do you mean, what am I doing? I'm driving."

"You were tapping along," Castiel points out.

Dean scoffs. "No, I wasn't."

"Admit it, Winchester, you like them."

"No, I don't."

Castiel shakes his head. "Fine," he relents, "you 'don't hate them.'" He puts air quotes around the terminology and Dean huffs, shaking his head. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat but doesn't respond. He  _ doesn't _ hate them, Cas is right, but he's not going to admit that, not when Cas has already talked him into going to the stupid Farmer's Market with him and is making Dean feel all warm and conflicted inside because Cas wears scarves and terrible sweaters, and drinks tea, and smokes fucking American Spirits, and Dean hates how much he likes it.

So yeah, no, he's not gonna go admitting to liking the stupid music Cas likes, too, because that's just too whipped, and Dean Winchester is not whipped. Like, at all.

They drive through town with Gold on the Ceiling blaring from Dean's speakers, and Castiel peering out the window with a contented smile on his face. It makes Dean feel content, too, and like the agony of traipsing around outside buying overpriced fruits and vegetables might just be worth it to see Cas happy.

~

When they pull up in front of a flea market, Dean lets the car idle, frowning up at the sign. "Babe, I think you gave me the wrong directions."

Castiel stretches, his back arching against the seat, long arms reaching for the ceiling, and Dean eyes the pale sliver of hip bone that peeks out from beneath Cas’s sweater. "No, this is it."

"I thought we were going to the Farmer's Market."

"We are," Castiel agrees, "after we're done here." He climbs out of the car leaving Dean gaping.

"Fuckin' lying hipster," Dean mutters under his breath. He shuts his door with a little more force than necessary and watches as Castiel comes to stand in front of him, his hands tucked in the sleeves of his sweater, a smile playing at his lips.

"You're angry," he points out, not the least bit remorseful.

"What the hell are we doing here, Cas?"

"I need some things."

"What  _ things _ ?"

Castiel shrugs. "I don't know yet," he admits. "That's the point of a flea market, Dean."

Dean scowls, and Castiel presses in close, looping his arms around Dean's neck. "You're very cute when you pout," he mutters in his deep craggy voice. Even patronizing it sends a shiver down Dean's spine.

"'M not pouting," Dean protests.

Castiel hums, closing his mouth over Dean's and teasing his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips. Dean opens to him and fits his hands to Cas’s waist as the other man sighs into his mouth, rolling his tongue lazily over Dean's.

Cas is the dirtiest of fighters, and Dean is weak. Weak in the knees, weak in the willpower, just downright weak.

"An hour here," Dean grumbles. "Tops. Y'got it?"

"Two," Castiel murmurs against his mouth. He bites at Dean's bottom lip, and Dean drags him in closer, swallowing a noise so not suited for the ears of the general public.

"Ninety minutes and I'm in the car, driving away."

"Fine," Cas agrees. "But you have to buy me something utterly ridiculous." He tugs Dean away from the Impala by the belt loops then turns and heads for the sprawling lot before them laden with beer-bellied rednecks selling ancient furniture and trendy moms flipping crap that they got creative with a can of spray paint on.

They wind through the aisles in a disorganized fashion, stepping over dogs and skirting out of the way of DIY bloggers skimming the paraphernalia with eyes crazed and hair frazzled.

Castiel leads the way like he knows the place better than his own home, and Dean is happy to follow, watching Castiel survey items at a thoughtful pace, his eyes watchful and sharp behind his sunglasses.

"Do you do this a lot?" Dean wonders when they stop at a tent with a bunch of old rugs and records. He's never heard Castiel mention it before, but it seems like such a regular practice for him, it's hard to believe he  _ hasn't _ done it before.

Castiel keeps his head down, combing through the records. "I used to," he mutters. "Before I moved here."

_ Before Jimmy died _ goes unspoken, but Dean can hear it in the careful tone of his voice.

Castiel pulls a record out of the box, Depeche Mode's Speak and Spell, and studies the cover. "Balthazar hated it maybe more than you do. And I usually did more photographing than I did purchasing."

Dean nods, eyeing the album. "You're joking, right, Cas? Depeche Mode? You're not actually-"

"How much for the record?" Castiel calls out to a man helping a group of ladies off to the side. There's a smile on his face as he speaks, and Dean's pretty fucking certain had he not said anything at all, Cas would have moved on from the record with no intent to buy.

Dean gawks as the man shouts back a price, and Castiel nods, reaching for his wallet and digging out some cash. He hands it to the man and pulls Dean away from the table.

"I swear you do things to deliberately annoy me," Dean grumbles, falling into step beside Cas as they make their way along the yellowing grass and on to the next booth.

"You're catching on," Cas retorts. He swoops in from Dean's right, pressing a quick kiss to the side of Dean's mouth, and Dean fights against the minute upturn of his lips.

He's so fucking gone on Cas it's almost embarrassing.

"Asshole," he mumbles.

Within the hour Castiel's found some old books and a globe he paid $4 for that looks like it's never been touched. Dean begrudgingly pays $12 for a vintage Indiana Jones Raiders of the Lost Ark poster and tucks it under his arm against Castiel's merciless teasing about Dean having a thing for older rugged men in hats. (He should’ve never told Cas about John Wayne. Never.)

Dean doesn't defend himself because Cas might be just a little bit right.  

They stop in front of a tent that looks like it's straight out of the eighties, all neon colors and hair band CD's stacked precariously on old tables, and Cas is ready to push forward towards the next booth, but a worn black Polaroid camera catches Dean's eye.

"Hey," Dean says as he picks it up, shakes it at Castiel, "you ever have one of these?"

"No."

Dean hesitates for a moment, wondering if this could be the wrong thing, nudging at Castiel this way, but then he decides maybe Cas  _ needs _ to be nudged and crashes headlong into the fray. "It might be cool, huh?"

Castiel chews on his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on the camera, and Dean can practically see the war going on inside the guy's head. "They don't make film for it anymore," Castiel points out after a beat.

"Sure, they do." It's another man, presumably the owner of the camera, and he approaches them with hands in his pockets and an easy expression on his face. "Just gotta know where to look. I got a coupla' packs though, you can have 'em with the camera."  

Dean looks at Cas, eyebrow raised in question. Castiel reaches for the camera, holds it in his hands, staring down at it in silence. When he still doesn't speak, Dean turns his attention back to the man.

"We'll take it all," he decides, reaching for his back pocket. The man nods, turning to retrieve the film.

"Dean," Castiel starts, finally looking up.

Dean leans in close, brushes his lips against Castiel's. "It's okay," he says quietly.

Castiel looks back at the camera, nodding, and Dean kisses his forehead. He slings an arm around Cas’s waist and gives him a squeeze just as the man returns with the film.

When they walk away from the tent, Castiel is smiling, small, with just one corner of his mouth tugged up, and Dean knows he's done a good thing.

Their last stop is at a booth near the end. There's a man sitting in the back corner, greasy looking and bored, and Dean takes in all the merchandise with a judgmental stare. He's ready to move on, call it a day, when his eyes land on a cat blanket hanging to the back of the tent. It's the ugliest fucking thing Dean's ever seen, and it has Castiel's name written all over it.

"How much for the blanket?" Dean wonders, chuckling when Castiel sees it and pushes his sunglasses up off his nose, eyes snapping wide in interest.

The man hefts himself out of the chair and takes a few heavy steps towards the front of the tent. "I'll give it to you for thirty," he says, "never been used."

Dean chokes on nothing. "What the f-"

"Five," Castiel counters smoothly, eyes narrowed in the man's direction. His tone is uninterested, but Dean can feel the blunt edge of a challenge building.

"Best I can do is twenty, kid."

Castiel shakes his head. "No. It isn't. Seven, cash, or we'll walk away."

"Twel-" The man begins, but Castiel cuts him off with an air of authority.

"Seven or nothing."

Dean watches the exchange in amusement. For a damn flea market, things get pretty heated pretty quick.

"Fine," the man relents, "seven." He stalks away muttering something that sounds strikingly like  _ goddamn hipster trash _ under his breath.

When he returns, he's got the cat blanket wadded up, and he thrusts it at Dean and Castiel with a defeated scowl.

Castiel smiles sweetly at Dean, victory sparking across his face. "Give the nice man his money, baby."

Dean hands over the $7 and takes the blanket, wanting to say something about his comment, but finding himself being dragged away by the cool grasp of Castiel's hand. He shoots a glare over his shoulder instead and receives one in return.

Back at the Impala they load their stuff into the trunk, save the camera and film, and then Castiel is pushing Dean up against the side of the car, slipping his arms beneath Dean's jacket and bringing their faces a mere inch apart.

"You're wonderful," he grates out, his hair beautifully messy from the breeze that's been consistent all morning. Dean relents not being able to see the other man's eyes, reaches out, and pushes Cas’s sunglasses up so he can do just that, marveling at how they gleam in the sunlight, bright and pleased as can be.

It's hard to see the sadness like this, almost like it's not even there, and Dean offers him a lopsided grin. "I try."

Castiel shakes his head, kisses Dean open mouthed and slow like there's not anything in the world he'd rather be doing than this, here, with Dean.

" _ Cas _ -" Dean breathes when their mouths drift away from each other. There are words on the tip of his tongue, words he doesn't even remember saying to anyone but his mom and Sammy, maybe his dad a handful of times when he thought he'd hear it back.

Cas is staring at him, waiting, desperate for whatever Dean's going to say. Maybe he already knows, maybe Dean doesn't have to say it at all. Maybe.

"We should get going," Dean finally finishes, his gaze falling to just beyond Castiel's shoulder. "Gotta get you to the Farmer's Market before they close up shop for the day."

If Castiel is disappointed, he doesn't show it, merely nods, pecks Dean on the lips once more, and walks around the Impala to climb in on his side.

As Dean starts the car, Castiel loads a cartridge of film into his new Polaroid, fingers careful and gaze full of anticipation as it loads. When the camera whirs to life, he grabs Dean's hand, links their fingers together on the seat and snaps a photo.

He sets it on the dash to process and Dean tries not to watch it develop as he drives them to the Farmer's Market.

~

After what Castiel deems a successful trip at the Farmer’s Market (which, okay, wasn't as bad as Dean had expected), they stop for lunch at a little hole-in-the-wall deli just a few minutes away.

They settle themselves at one of the outside tables where brightly colored leaves skitter at their feet in the breeze, and the thick earthy scent of fall hangs heavy in the air.

"Thanksgiving's coming up," Dean points out around a bite of his sandwich, one that's too big for his mouth and prevents him from speaking properly.

Castiel scowls, and Dean smiles wide, tucking the wad of food in his cheek just to be an asshole.

"So," Dean continues.

" _ So _ , what?"

"So, what are your plans? You going home? Staying here? Talk to me."

Castiel traces the lip of his Snapple with his index finger, face cast downwards. "I was planning to spend the day at home."

Dean studies the other man's face. If he remembers right, Jimmy died the week before Thanksgiving. Cas probably hasn't celebrated since then.

And Dean can't blame him. He remembers how hard holidays were after his mom died. His dad too, but after Mary passed, John's spark for life went out, and all holidays and birthdays suffered with it.

He remembers a few attempts at Christmas, Sam's birthday, maybe an Easter once, their dad trying to cling to the idea of a normal family, but the spirit never lasted long and often times Dean and Sam ended up holed up in a hotel somewhere, exchanging gas station gifts and drinking too much.

It wasn't until after John died that they really started celebrating anything again.

"At home  _ alone _ ," Dean states, the need to make it a question nonexistent. He knows how Cas operates.

"At home with my cat," Castiel counters.

Dean can't even proffer him a smile because cats don't count as people, and that's the saddest fucking thing he's ever heard. "Well," he says, "you know you're always welcome to come to ours. Thanksgiving's kinda our thing. Ellen and I cook, everybody gets drunk on pumpkin ale, Bobby gets pissed off over the game. Y' know, the usually fucked up family gathering."

Castiel smiles, a half curve of his lips, and nods.

"And hey, if there's something special you wanna do or make or whatever, just say the word."

Castiel nods, his face turned towards his sandwich, thoughtful.

Dean wonders if he's remembering or trying not to. Or both. He opens his mouth to speak, a confession about to roll off his tongue,  _ I know about Jimmy and it's okay, we don't have to talk about it, but I wanted you to know, I know.  _ But the words won't come. Like they know the destruction they'll cause.

He takes a swig of his drink instead.

On the ride to Cas’s apartment, Cas is a bit more reserved than he was on the way to the flea market. He pushes a Fleet Foxes cassette into the deck –  _ Sun Giant _ , he tells Dean – and turns the volume up.

The song has a poignant sound but flows steadily, seamlessly out of the speakers. Somehow, it's so befitting of Cas, Dean doesn't even think to ask him to put something else on. As they drive, Dean offers his hand across the seat, palm up, a peace offering for bringing up something he knew was probably sensitive.

Whether he knows that's what the gesture means or not, Cas reaches out, laces his fingers with Deans, and squeezes. 

Dean watches him chew on his bottom lip out of the corner of his eye as he drives.

"We used to watch  _ Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving _ every year," Castiel offers, quietly, like he's not sure he actually wants to share the information but can't stop himself from doing so.

"We?" Dean wonders, and maybe this is it, maybe this is where Cas tells him everything, deflates the crevice swelling between them.

"Me, sometimes my cousins," Castiel corrects, looking out his window for a beat. "It was my favorite part about the day, when I finally got to be excused from the table and watch Charlie Brown. Thanksgivings were otherwise awful."

Dean nods, resigned. "Shit family, right?" he asks, because it may have been for different reasons, but Dean knows all too well what having a shit family feels like.

"Yes," Castiel responds. "Even though my parents split up when I was twelve, my mother insisted on a 'normal mid-western family appearance' and invited my father and his boyfriend over every single year."

Dean chokes. "Your dad had a boyfriend?" Not that it matters, especially given the circumstances, Cas kinda has a boyfriend too, but it still takes Dean by surprise. 

Cas’s grin is wide, amused, as he nods. "Still does," he tells Dean. "His name is Inias; he's who my father left my mother for when I was twelve. Inias was eighteen, tight-assed, and my father's paralegal. Lots of long nights at the office."

"Dude, gross," Dean tenders, crinkling his nose.

"Inias was always kind to me. I think he wanted to be my friend, or at least wanted me not to hate him."

"But?"

Castiel shrugs, glancing at Dean. "But I had no opinion about him. My father was just as absent before he and my mother divorced as he was after. My parents hated each other long before Inias ever came along. I couldn't hate him for that."

"So, it was mostly just you and your mom when you were a kid?" Dean questions, forcing an evenness into his tone. He grips the steering wheel with his free hand, half hoping Cas will catch on that Dean knows, half praying he doesn't.

"I had nannies," Castiel answers easily. "My mother was rarely home herself. She's a very well-respected ophthalmologist who's always had more time for her patients than she did for her own family."

"Sounds rough," Dean offers.

Castiel shrugs again. "I read a lot of books and got into photography. I wasn't ever lonely. Plus, my mother and I didn't see things equally. I preferred not to be around her even when she was present. She’s very controlling."

As Dean comes to idle at a light, he lends his glance to Castiel, taking in the carefully held line of the man's shoulders. He always looks about one step away from falling apart, barely held together with weed and alcohol, melancholy indie music, and bright eyes that make Dean feel like he's drowning, an air of desperation he can't quite place. It's like Cas wants so badly to live a normal life but doesn't quite remember how, like maybe he got stuck somewhere in between trying to move on from his brother's death and feeling guilty for doing so.

"So, it's been awhile since you talked to her?"

"Years," Castiel responds, unapologetic. He bends to dig around on the floor in front of him, pulls out the Polaroid and tugs open the flash. It's an obvious indication the conversation is over, but Dean doesn't protest. "Put your finger on the EJECT button," he instructs.

"Why."

"Because I like the symbolism. Finger, now, please, Dean."

"You know how I could take that, right?" Dean smirks in Castiel's direction.

Cas already has the camera to his face, waiting for Dean to comply. "If you were an immature asshole, yes."

"Who says I'm not?" Dean presses his finger to the EJECT button, ejecting Cas’s tape as he snaps a photo.

Castiel pulls the photo out of the camera, waving it in the air a couple of times before it joins the first one on the dash. "I feel like buried somewhere deep beneath all those horrible clothes you wear and awful music you listen to is a truly decent man." He smiles at Dean proud, no teeth showing, and Dean wants to drag him across the bench and kiss the ridiculous look off his face.

"Shut up," he settles for instead.

Castiel's smile melts into something small and fond. "Somewhere," he repeats, more gently this time.

Dean smiles to himself, shaking his head and reaching out in the space between them, lightly slugging Castiel on the shoulder. "You're such an asshole."

Castiel grins at him. "I know."

When they pull up in front of Cas’s apartment, Dean goes to kill the engine, but Cas rests a hand over his, stopping him.

"I can get my things."

Dean shoots him a glance. "Y'sure?" Cas nods. He's staring at Dean, his lips curving upwards, and Dean reaches out, pulls the sunglasses from his face.

"Take these fucking things off," he mutters because it's been a full afternoon of not being able to see Cas’s eyes, and it's bothered him in ways he can't even begin to explain. "What are you smiling at?"

"You're sunburnt," Cas replies. He runs a gentle finger down Dean's nose, kisses the tip, and thank God for the sunburn because Dean suddenly feels flushed all over. Cas tilts his head, brings his lips a breath away from Dean's. "Thank you for today."

Dean closes the gap between them, lets his eyes slide shut as they kiss. Castiel is warm from being out in the sun, his hair windblown, and his body so close, so  _ there _ , Dean doesn't want the moment to end.

Castiel rests his forehead against Dean's, his eyes still closed, and Dean rubs his thumb along the other man's bottom lip, smoothing the soft chap that's built up. "I'll see you later?" Dean questions, tamping down the bleating thoughts that run through his brain, mocking his sentimentality.

Cas hums, kisses Dean again, and moves away, stooping to gather his things and climb out of the car. He leaves his shoebox behind, "Just in case you want to continue your music education in my absence," and retreats in the direction of his apartment.


	15. Chapter 15

"So, did you talk to him?"

It's the first question Sam asks when Dean walks into the kitchen. He goes for the fridge, pulls out a beer. "Nope."

Sam shakes his head at his sandwich, like it's the only thing in the world that understands him. "You're going to have to at some point, Dean."

Dean twists the cap off his beer and flicks it into the trash can, leaning his weight against the countertop and eyeing his brother. "You a relationship therapist now or something, Sammy?" He takes a long swig of his beer, the cool liquid sliding down his throat easily.

"I just wanna see things work out between you and Cas," Sam offers, and damn him for being so supportive.

Dean scratches at his head, looks at the floor. "Yeah," he says, "me too."

It's quiet for a moment, Sam's imploring gaze raking over Dean's face. He takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

"Something else on your mind?"

"I got a job," Sam blurts, and Dean blinks at him over the top of his beer bottle. Sam looks concerned, which is probably Dean's fault and he'll never stop feeling guilty about that, but despite what he's said in the past, he's actually kinda proud of the kid. He pretends to wipe a tear from his face, and Sam scowls at him.

"What, Sammy, I'm emotional. You're growing up to be such a responsible young man."

"You're the one that's discouraged me from getting a job, Dean. _Focus on school, Sammy, I'll handle the bills_."

Dean folds his arms and crosses his legs at his ankles. "Yeah, you really fought me hard on that one, too." He grins at Sam, a placating gesture that says, _It's okay. I'm cool,_ and Sam relaxes in his chair. "So where is this job?"

"Uh, Shurley's? I'm gonna be bartending on the weekends. It will fill more time than the Bunker does."

"Awesome," Dean says, "I'll bring Cas in for free drinks."

"You guys don't get free drinks, Dean."

"Not even if I flirt with the bartender?" Dean asks, fluttering his eyelashes at Sam.

Sam frowns. " _Especially_ if you flirt with the bartender."

Dean shrugs. "It usually works," he offers.

" _Anyway_ ," Sam continues, "I start training on Monday, so I'm not gonna be around for lunch."

"Oh," Dean says, realizing he hasn't told Sam about the fire station. "No worries. I uh- I won't be around either, so. We're cool."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Where are you going to be?"

Dean averts his gaze to the bottle in his hand, picking at the soggy label with his thumbnail. "You remember how I used to volunteer down at the fire station?"

"Before Dad and Bobby's fight," Sam supplies.

"Well I'm gonna start again. Monday, actually."

Sam's beaming at him now, all enthusiasm and pride, and Dean shifts on his feet, feeling uncomfortable under Sam's excited scrutiny. He and Bobby are the only other people, aside from Cas, that have ever known about Dean's desire to become a fireman, and he asked long ago, when he gave up on the dream, that they not bring it up again. Now though, it's like Sam's at the circus for the very first time and doesn't know how to contain his excitement.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!" Sam stands from his chair and lopes across the kitchen. He pulls Dean into a bone crushing hug, practically weeping with joy against Dean's shoulder. "That's so awesome, Dean." Dean hesitantly wraps his arms around his little brother, thumps once against Sam's back, and releases him.

"Thanks, Sammy," he mutters with flushed cheeks and a smile on his face. For the first time in a long time, he feels hopeful about his future, like maybe he _can_ be more than just a high school dropout who's destined to work odd jobs for the rest of his life.

It feels good.

"We have to celebrate," Sam states. "Shurley's, Monday. Come after your shift. Bring Cas, too, if you want. I'm gonna want to hear all about it."

Dean chuckles, "Okay, Sam."

Sam smiles at him, a wide thing splitting across his face, and because Dean thinks he's going to try and hug him again, he turns to the fridge, pulls out another beer, and hands it to Sam.

"To growing up," he jokes, because it's better than all the other things he could say, _to not being dad, to getting our asses in gear, to not accepting these shitastic lives..._ He holds his bottle in the air. Sam's grin deepens, and he clinks his bottle against Dean's.

"To growing up."

**:::**

Dean works a full eight hours at the station. When he slips outside at five, the sun is starting to descend, and the sky is a smudge of orange and purple, trees silhouetted black against the clouds, and the air cool. He feels lighter walking out than he did walking in, like being here has relieved a burden he's been carrying around for who knows how long, and he smiles all the way to his car.

When he gets his phone turned back on, a string of texts come through, two from Sam, and the rest from Cas. He quickly reads over Sam's, _How's it going?_ and _Still on for tonight?_ replying with a quick _Yup_ , and then moves on to Cas'.

_[11:14AM] If I pull the fire alarm at work will you get to come rescue me? ;)_

_[1:04PM] Have you had any calls about cats in trees yet?_

_[1:57PM] I hope you're having a good day. :)_

_[3:26PM] I think instead of drinks tonight we should just have celebratory sex._

_[4:45PM] I was serious about that by the way, Dean. Don't keep me waiting or I'll start without you. You know I will._

Dean's face flushes at the last text, and he cranks the Impala into gear.

~

Dean bounces on the souls of his feet as he waits for Castiel to answer the door. He hates that he hasn't been offered a key or been invited to just walk in whenever he feels like, but he's pretty sure it has something to do with Cas still clinging to what's left of the wall between them because it's more comfortable for him than just taking a sledgehammer to the damn thing and tearing it down altogether.

When Cas opens the door his cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark and hazy. All he's wearing is a pair of tattered grey sweatpants, and Dean takes a second to let his eyes rove over Castiel's bare chest and shoulders, licking his lips as he takes in the other man's collarbones and the defined cut of his hips "Did you- uh-" Dean starts, brushing a thumb across the corner of his mouth. He can see the half hard line of Castiel through the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants, and he feels interest twinge low in his belly.

Castiel reaches out, fists his hands in Dean's t-shirt, and pulls him across the threshold. "No," he growls, kissing Dean hard and frantic, "I wanted _you_."

Dean nods, smiles into the kiss. He kicks the door shut behind him, shuffling Castiel back towards the bed as they pluck at one another's clothes and grapple at the naked skin that's revealed, desperate to be closer, closer, _closer_.

"How was your first day?" Castiel pants into Dean's mouth. His sweats are around his knees now, and Dean finds him delightfully sans underwear, letting his hands slide down to Cas’s ass and squeezing at the sinewy muscle there.

"Awesome," he mutters as Castiel licks his way down Dean's neck.

When Cas’s legs hit the mattress, he tumbles onto the bed, pulling Dean with him in a messy fumble of limbs, both of them chuckling as they go. Dean's elbow connects with Cas’s ribs, and the other man bites down at the crook of Dean's neck in response.

"Sorry, baby," Dean mutters, moving to plant a kiss where his elbow had just been.

Castiel hums, tugging Dean back up by the shoulders and slotting their mouths together again.

Dean's down to nothing but his underwear now and when he presses himself against Cas, he sucks in a breath, a wave of pleasure rolling through him that he huffs out against Cas’s shoulder.

"Were there any – _ah, Dean, yes_ – sexy firemen there?" Cas manages as Dean grinds against him, picking up a rhythm that's both perfect and not fast enough. Cas squirms, probably trying to kick his sweats the rest of the way off, and Dean links their fingers together, gently pinning the other man's hands to either side of his head. He bends to press another kiss to Cas’s lips.

"Just me," Dean finally responds. Cas bites at his bottom lip, tugs, drawing Dean back in.

Sweat is gathering along Dean's shoulders and at the small of his back, and he moves to nose along Cas’s jaw, sucking at the knob and kissing his way down Castiel's neck.

" _Dean_ ," Cas breathes, " _harder_." His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, and Dean obliges, pressing them together more firmly and creating a stronger friction that has him burying his face in the crook of Castiel's neck and breathing hard.

Cas is finally able to kick his sweat pants off, and his thighs come up to bracket Dean's hips, drawing them closer together.

Dean can feel his orgasm building, prickling along his spine and pooling low in his belly.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel grates out, squeezing Dean's fingers between his own. It's the only warning he gets before Cas is spilling his release between them, coating Dean's underwear and their lower abdomens. Dean moves to kiss him, thrusting a few more times until he's coming himself, breathing his orgasm into Castiel's mouth, smiling around the moan Cas lets out as his dick grows soft against Dean's.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean mumbles, dropping his forehead to rest on Cas’s collarbone. Cas releases one of Dean's hands, bringing his free hand to the back of Dean's neck and scratching at the short hairs there. He kisses the top of Dean's head, and they lie there, breathing through their releases in an almost synchronized motion.

"I've been thinking about that all day," Castiel admits quietly, stroking his fingers through Dean's hair, his voice impossibly rough. Dean can feel the vibrations of it rumbling through his skull, and he moves to press his nose into the nook of Cas’s neck again, pressing a kiss to the slightly damp skin before letting his eyes slide shut.

"Must have been a long goddamn day," Dean says.

"It was."

The apartment falls quiet, Dean focusing on the way their chests rise and fall against each other, and he thinks about Cas’s tattoo, what it means, who it's for. Maybe now would be a good time to say something, when they're post orgasm and too naked and pliant to argue.

The thought leaves him as quickly as it's come.

Truth be told there's probably never going to be a _good time_ to talk to Cas about his dead brother. Instead Dean rolls off the other man, settling on his back and blinking at the ceiling.

"Gonna need a shower before we go see Sam," he says, "and probably some clothes."

Cas turns to drape himself over Dean's front, resting his chin in the crook of his elbow where it lies across Dean's chest and staring up at Dean with blissed-out eyes. "I'm sure we can find you something he says," a devious glint in his eye.

There's a horrifying second where Dean gets an image of himself decked out in one of Cas’s ridiculous sweaters, but he banishes it from his mind for good and shakes his head. " _I'll_ find something," he counters. "I don't trust you not to put me in something that's going to make me look like an idiot."

"Now, now, Dean," Castiel chides. "Where's your faith?" He kisses Dean, smiling against his lips, and stands, making for his dresser and pulling open drawers. "How do you feel about bears?" he asks, holding up a black knit sweater with rows of red and blue bears on it.

" _Goddammit_ ," Dean mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. Maybe if he can't see the atrocity, it will disappear.

A beat of silence passes, and then Dean feels the mattress dip beneath him, hears the rustle of fabric as Castiel presumably climbs back onto the bed.

"Dean," his voice is quiet, just above Dean's face, and when Dean moves his arm, opens his eyes, he finds himself staring into Castiel's impossibly blue gaze.

"Hmm?"

Castiel's lips stretch into a closed mouth smile. "It's important to me that you pick a sweater to wear. It's my rite of passage."

Dean snorts. "Rite of passage, huh?"

Castiel worries at his bottom lip, and his eyelashes fucking _flutter_. It shouldn't work, it's downright ridiculous, but Dean lets out a groan, flings his arm over his eyes again because even if he's going to agree to this, he can't do it while looking the other guy in the eyes. It's just not right.

"I hate you," Dean grouses.

"No, you don't." Cas’s voice is gentle, definitive.

"No, I really do, I hate you."

Castiel presses a kiss to Dean's mouth and lets his lips trail lower, stopping at his chin, his neck, chest, and abdomen. When he hooks his fingers through the waistband of Dean’s underwear and pulls them down to drop a soft kiss to the head of Dean's dick, Dean lifts his arm a hair, cracks his eyes open. Cas flashes a wicked grin at Dean and takes his soft cock into his mouth, sucking until it begins to grow hard.

"I hate you a little less," Dean wheezes, closing his eyes again and lying back.

Castiel keeps taking him in until he can't anymore, and Dean loses all semblance of rational thinking. And that's why – minutes later, when he's on the brink of orgasm – he agrees in a broken moan to wear whatever the hell Cas wants just as long as he, " _God-please-don't-stop_."

 ~

"Oh my God," Dean groans, scowling at himself in the bathroom mirror. Cas has wrestled him into a black sweater with a bright geometric pattern all over it , and he looks like he hopped a ride with Bill and Ted and rode in straight from the late eighties.

"It’s not _that_ bad,” Castiel chides him haughtily from where he stands behind Dean. “And you agreed." Cas, of course, looks somewhat normal in a low-cut v-neck and fitted jeans. Never mind the cardigan or the beanie, they look good on him. The asshole.

"I agreed to wear it," Dean says, tugging on the hem and plucking at the collar. "I didn't agree to be seen in public in it."

Cas hums, turning Dean to face him and looping his arms around Dean's neck. "Another persuasive blow job, perhaps?" he asks, kissing Dean.

"Another 12," Dean grumbles.

Cas smiles, kisses him again, "There's plenty of time for that later," he says. "For now, we're leaving, I'm hungry." He turns and exits the bathroom, shutting off the light as he goes and leaving Dean enveloped in a cool darkness.

At least he can't see the fucking sweater.

Cas pulls on a thicker sweater over the top of his cardigan, something he calls a cable knit cardigan – why he needs two, Dean's got no idea – and asks Dean if he wants a scarf, holding up a bright blue number that matches his eyes, but that Dean kinda just wants to take a lighter to.

"No, I do not want a scarf," Dean growls, sliding his feet into his boots and lacing them hastily. At least Cas had a pair of Dean's jeans here. There was no way he was going to go squeezing into a pair of skinny jeans. Wearing them on Halloween was one time too many.

"Suit yourself," Cas mutters. He drapes the scarf over his own frame and leads Dean out the door.

When they settle in at the bar, Sam looks flustered but happy. He raises an eyebrow at Dean's attire, an amused smile alighting on his face, but Dean angrily grabs a menu and grumbles, "Not one fucking word, Sammy."

Sam's hands rise in a placating gesture. "Wasn't gonna." But Dean can tell it's an outright lie.

"I think you look adorable," Cas mutters in his ear after Sam's set a couple of napkins down in front of them and rushed off to help another customer.

"I think I need to stop agreeing to things when you've got my dick in your mouth," Dean responds.

Cas smiles at him, wide and proud, and Dean kisses him because it's the most infuriating smile Cas has.

They order loaded nachos and a couple of Guinnesses from the tap, and Dean rehashes his day in snippets as Sam splits his time between helping other patrons and scrubbing at the bar in front of Dean and Castiel so he can listen to the details.

When closing time hits, Sam leaves them to get their check, and Cas lets his body slump against Dean's, his head falling to rest on Dean's shoulder. He had a couple more beers than Dean did, and he can tell the other guy is about one more away from slipping into that bossy, mouthy state he gets in when he's drunk.

Right now, he's just pliant, sleepy.

"Come home with me?" Castiel slurs a little, rising his head to look Dean in the eyes.

And because his eyes are so big and so blue, wide like the ocean and just as stormy, Dean ignores all the other things he was supposed to get done tonight and says, "Okay."

**:::**

The week passes quickly with Dean dividing his time between the garage and the fire station. Cas ends up showing up at his door twice during the week, both times past 10pm and looking lonely and tired. Dean doesn't ask any questions, knowing full well why he's there, and just shuffles him into his room, helps him out of his clothes, and wraps him up in his arms.

"Thank you," Cas murmurs against Dean's collarbone one night. Dean presses a kiss to his forehead and holds him tighter.

**:::**

Friday is a particularly grueling day. He works the morning at Singer Automotive then heads straight over to the station. By the time he drops into bed after one in the morning, he's exhausted, curling himself around his pillow, and only gets as far as kicking off his boots before passing out.

**:::**

Dean's staring intently at the scrambled eggs in his skillet when Sam shuffles into the kitchen, yawning and sporting some serious bed head.

"You okay?" he asks, pulling open the fridge and ducking inside. He rights himself with a bottle of orange juice in his hand and reaches for a glass in the cupboard near by.

"I'm worried about Cas," Dean admits, pushing the eggs around with slightly shaking fingers.

Sam's pouring himself some OJ now, and he stops, frowns at Dean. "Why?"

Dean shrugs. "He's not answering my calls."

"Maybe he's working," Sam offers. He leans himself against the countertop and takes a sip of his juice.

A nervous fluttering feeling presents itself behind Dean's breastbone, and he shakes his head. "Said he wasn't working today. It's the anniversary of Jimmy's death."

"Wait, he told you that?"

"No, he didn't tell me that," Dean snaps. "He just mentioned he wasn't working today and got real quiet about it." He pulls the skillet from the burner and twists the heat off, pouring the eggs onto a plate and shaking some salt over them.

"Are you gonna go check on him?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"You're gonna have to tell him you know if you do that, Dean."

Dean sighs, looking down at his plate, not even hungry enough to eat. "Yeah," he says, "I know."

~

Dean arrives at Cas’s place shortly after noon. He takes the steps two by two and hovers just outside the apartment for a beat before knocking hard against the door. When Cas doesn't answer, he knocks again.

Nothing happens.

Dean reaches out and grabs for the knob just as the door swings open to reveal Cas standing on the other side, wild haired, and smelling like he drank a liquor store, his eyes cloudy, broken. Against his better judgment, Dean winces a flat smile at Castiel and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"You weren't answering my calls," he explains sheepishly.

"Because I don't want to talk," Castiel growls. He's gained that hardness back he possessed all those months ago, his shoulders taut, his jaw stony, and it's like they're back in the record store all over again, insulting each other's lifestyles and pounding on walls that weren't yet ready to come down.

Cas’s seems to have gone back up.

"C'mon, Cas, just let me in," Dean pleads, quiet, careful.

Castiel doesn't budge. "Why."

"Because it's probably not a good idea for you to be alone right now," Dean answers with an edge of bite in his voice.

Castiel's eyes narrow, and Dean's stomach churns. "You _know_ ," Cas accuses, jabbing a finger against Dean's chest. "I don't know how you found out, or how much you know, but you're an asshole for digging when you knew I didn't want you to."

Dean's shoulders slump, and he feels woozy. For as horrible as he imagined this feeling, it's a million times worse. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, "Cas, I'm _sorry_."

"Sorry about what, Dean? That Ji-" He chokes on the name, sniffs, continues. "That my brother's dead? That I still feel like this after two years?" Cas throws his hands out to his sides, one still curled around a bottle.

"Cas-"

"I tried," Cas continues. He's looking at the floor now, and Dean's not even sure Cas is still talking to him, but he listens anyway. "Balthazar, and the flea market, and sex, and not getting high anymore." He looks back up at Dean then, "And you. I _tried_ to move on, Dean, and I still- I'm still falling apart. What am I supposed to do?"

His eyes fill with tears, but they don't fall, clinging to his lash line in a stubborn attempt to stay strong. The fight leaves him almost as quickly as it'd come though, and he steps up to Dean, letting his forehead fall to Dean's shoulder. "What am I supposed to do?" he asks again, quietly.

Dean feels the shed of hot tears seep into the cotton of his t-shirt, and he wraps his arms around Castiel, drawing him close and holding him in the middle of the doorway as the other man clings to his back like he'll crumble if he doesn't.

And maybe he will.

A minute passes, maybe two before Dean dares say anything. "Hey, whaddaya say we go inside, huh? That sound okay?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Cas mutters. His eyelids are drooping now, his body heavy, and Dean leads him into the apartment with a gentle hand at the small of his back.

"I didn't come to talk," Dean tells him honestly, because if there's one thing he understands about any of this, it's that talking about it doesn't always help; no matter what the shrinks tell you.

Castiel stumbles to the couch, falling onto it and draping himself over one of the arms. "You came for sex then."

Dean crouches in front of him, taking Castiel's face in his hands and drawing the other man's gaze to meet his own. "I came for _you_ ," he says, brushing a thumb along the bottom lashes of one of Cas’s eyes and trying not to break under the bottomless gaze boring into him. He hates the pain he sees there, wants to take it from him. He'd rather bear it as his own then watch Cas go through it.

Castiel nods his understanding, sighs. "I'm so tired," he says dejectedly, and Dean gets it. He gets that weariness that sleep won't fix, that bone deep, perpetually inescapable sort of tired, a weary that separates you from everyone else.

Tired of pain, tired of life, tired of dealing with both.

Not being able to give up.

"I don't want to feel this way anymore, Dean. Why do I still feel this way?" He's staring at Dean like he holds all the answers, harbors just the right words to make everything okay. It kills Dean that that isn't the case, that he can't be that for Cas, can't even be that for himself, really, but instead of saying so, Dean just shakes his head.

"I don't know," he admits, pressing a kiss to Cas’s forehead.

Castiel closes his eyes and breathes a heavy sigh. "Will you stay?" he questions, letting his head rest on the arm of the couch again.

Dean tugs the bottle of alcohol out of his hand and sets it on the coffee table. "Yeah, Cas," he mutters, brushing a hand through Cas’s hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

He stands and makes for Cas’s bed, stepping over piles of clothes as he goes. It looks like everything has been pulled out of Cas’s dresser and is now scattering the floor like neat, color-coded land mines. Pulling the top most blanket off the bed, he carries it over to the couch, the kitchenette in the corner catching his eye for the first time. It’s in disarray, too, every dish Castiel owns strewn across the counter top, precariously stacked plates, and bowls, and cookware.

“Did a tornado blow through here or something?” Dean wonders as he settles himself in the corner opposite Castiel and prompts him to lie down, rest his head in Dean's lap. Dean drapes the blanket over Cas, tucking all the edges in tight and letting his fingers tangle in Castiel's hair, dragging along his scalp.

Castiel relaxes easily, his eyes sliding closed, and his shoulder melting against Dean's hip. "I was reorganizing,” he offers with a yawn. “Everything was so out of place, it was giving me anxiety. I'll finish it later.”

“I can do it,” Dean tells him because he's always known about Cas’s disorder, but he hasn't ever seen it full-fledged like this. From what he knows, OCD is all about keeping things impeccably neat and crippling rituals – flipping the lights on and off a certain amount of times, that sort of thing - and it's unsettling observing the actual chaos of it all. His fingers itch to put it all back together, put _Cas_ all back together.

Cas drapes an arm over Dean's leg. “I have to do it,” he says. “It needs to be done right.”

Dean doesn't even really know how to begin to approach that, so he lets it lie. They can address that later. For now, all he's worried about is Cas.

“Don't leave me, Dean," Castiel mouths drunkenly against Dean's thigh when the silence stretches on for too long, "I don't want to be alone."

"I'm here, babe." Dean reminds him, "I'm here."

~

Castiel jerks awake some two hours later, sitting bolt upright on the couch and heaving in deep breaths.

"Hey," Dean soothes, reaching out to rub a hand across Cas’s back. "It's okay," he consoles lowly, despite the fact that right now things are obviously anything but _okay_. "It's okay."

Castiel shudders once, tugging the blanket closer around him and hunches his shoulders, his eyes sliding closed as Dean works his fingers into the thatch of hair at the base of Cas’s skull.

Several long moments pass before Castiel begins to relax.

"You want a cigarette or something?" Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "Whiskey," he croaks.

Dean eyes the half empty bottle on the table warily. He's not sure how much was in there when Cas started, but the guy's already drunk, more would probably not bode well for his current state.

"How about a bath," Dean offers instead.

Castiel sighs, his head drooping. "Fine."

"I'll get it started," Dean presses a kiss to Cas’s temple, a gesture Castiel leans into, and leaves the other man for the bathroom, running the water until it turns hot and plugging up the bathtub.

Castiel shuffles in a moment or so later, tugging his shirt over his head and fumbling with the fly on his jeans. Dean reaches out to help, but Cas bats him away. "I can do it," he mutters, not unkindly. After a few more tries, he gets it open, and the pants slide down and pool around his ankles.

"There's a bomb in there," Castiel states, waving his hand at the cupboard and tripping out of his jeans.

Dean frowns and glances to his side. "What?"

"For the bath," Cas explains in a huff. "It's green."

Dean digs around until he finds a green ball, chalk-like and fragrant, and holds it up. "This?"

"Yes. Put it in."

Dean drops the ball in the tub and watches as the water around it fizzes and bubbles, a murky green color oozing out from the center of the froth.

Castiel steps inside and sits with his knees pulled to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his legs. He looks small, curled in on himself like that, and Dean doesn't like the way it makes him feel.

Castiel rests his cheek on his knees and blinks at Dean, a sliver of blue peeking from between his lashes.

"You want me to leave you alone?" Dean questions.

"Maybe."

Dean nods. "I'll get out of your hair." He stands to leave.

"You'll still be here when I get out?" Castiel wonders, his voice quiet, ashamedly curious.

"I'll still be here," Dean reassures him.

“Don't fix the apartment, Dean; it will just make it worse if you do.”

Dean nods. “The clean up’s all yours. You just relax, okay?”

"Okay." Seemingly comforted Castiel stretches out, resting his back against the slick wall of the tub and slipping under the water until only his shoulders and head can be seen. Dean remains in the bathroom for another beat, then leaves Castiel to soak, shutting the door behind him.

While Castiel rests in the bath, Dean puts himself to work, digging out the biggest, fluffiest sweater Cas owns so it's ready when he gets out of the tub, and moving furniture and Castiel's mattress around so he can set up a blanket fort just like he used to do for Sam when it was storming and their dad was too drunk to soothe his anxieties.

He flicks through Cas’s Netflix account, pulling up _Twin Peaks_ , and creeps towards the bathroom, tapping lightly on the door before pushing it open.

"You okay?" Dean asks, sitting on the toilet and resting his elbows on his knees.

Castiel hums in response.

Dean watches him for a moment. He looks calmer now, more relaxed, and while Dean doubts he's feeling much better, it's almost hard to believe he's the same man that cried in Dean's arms in the middle of the hallway for a good several minutes earlier in the day.

After a minute Castiel's eyes slide open, and he looks over at Dean, questions swimming in his expression.

"Are you getting in?" Dean hesitates only briefly, eyeing the size of the tub and wondering if they'll both fit, before nodding and stripping out of his clothes.

He finds the bathtub to be bigger than it looks, he and Castiel fitting quite comfortably with Dean leaning up against the back of the tub and Castiel situated in between his legs. Castiel leans back against Dean's chest and pulls Dean's arms around his waist, slipping his fingers in between Dean's.

The only sound in the bathroom is the quiet drip of the tap and the soft sound Dean's lips make against Castiel's neck as he peppers light kisses up and down the length of it. The small room is humid, the smell of lemongrass and avocado hanging thick in the air, and if they were in here together under different circumstances, Dean might be ridiculously turned on right now. As it is, he feels somber, extra mindful of Cas, and a little helpless.

Castiel tips his head back on Dean's shoulder, closing his eyes and sighing softly. "Dean," he says.

"Yeah, babe?"

"I wanted to tell you," he says sluggishly. "I just-"

"Hey," Dean stops him, pressing another kiss to the side of his neck, "it's okay. We can talk about that later, okay?"

Castiel nods, a slight movement of his head. "Alright."

Dean holds him just a little bit tighter, and Castiel falls still.

~

They sit in the tub until the water turns lukewarm and their skin begins to prune. As the water drains, Castiel slips into the boxer briefs and sweater Dean brought in, and Dean wraps himself in a towel, padding out into the apartment to dig up some pajamas. It's only just after three in the afternoon, but pajamas seem only fitting for the current circumstances.

When Cas steps out of the bathroom and sees the blanket fort, his eyes go soft. "What's this?" he asks, flicking his gaze to where Dean's tugging on a pair of pajama bottoms. Dean looks at the fort then back to Cas, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Just because it was a good idea for Sam when he was six doesn't mean it's a good idea for Cas now.

"I uh-" Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I used to do this for Sammy when he was scared of thunderstorms. Bad thoughts and feelings weren't allowed inside the tent. It was the only way to kill his fear. I guess it's kind of stupid though."

Castiel shakes his head, crossing to stand before Dean. "No," he says, taking Dean's face in his hands. "Dean, it's not stupid. It's not." He rests his forehead against Dean's, and Dean breathes in his fresh scent, grateful for the sense of calm that seems to have settled over Cas after the bath. "Thank you," Castiel mutters, eyes closed and thumbs trailing over Dean's cheekbones.

Dean closes the small gap between them, pressing his lips to Cas’s and wrapping his arms around the other man's back, wishing there was more he could do.

~

Dean makes some toast and instructs Castiel to eat at least one piece to help soak up all the alcohol he's consumed, makes him drink a couple glasses of water, too. They curl up in the blanket fort, hunkering down under Cas’s down comforter, and Dean turns on _Twin Peaks_. It's not exactly feel-good material, but it's plot heavy and hopefully enough to keep Castiel's mind from lingering too much on his brother.

By the time night falls, they've marathoned their way through the first season. Dean orders them take out, and Castiel fishes out the bottle of black nail polish he used on Halloween, presenting it to Dean with a shy bat of his lashes.

"Ruby and Anna go for manicures when one of them's upset," he explains.

Dean chuckles and twists the top off the bottle. "Jo usually does mine," he admits. "I haven't mastered that whole ambidextrous thing yet."

Castiel starts season two of _Twin Peaks_ , stretching out on his stomach and offering Dean one of his hands. Dean divides his attention between covering Cas’s nails with black polish and watching the television screen.

It's nearly 2am when they get around to settling in for bed. Castiel switches on _The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross_ and curls against Dean's chest, examining his nails in the bright glow of the TV.

"Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?" he asks as he settles his arm over Dean's waist.

Dean rests his chin on Cas’s head. "Nope, I'm all yours. Unless you want me to bug off." He feels the soft press of lips against his throat and smiles into the darkness.

"No," Castiel murmurs. "I want to be with you."

"I'll see you in the morning then," Dean mumbles, his limbs heavy with fatigue and his mind already fogging over.

"See you in the morning, Dean."


	16. Chapter 16

They end up on the roof. It's just after six in the morning, and the city is still drowsy – grey from the last vestiges of night – and quiet. It's odd to think he's never brought Dean up here; it's one of Castiel's favorite places to be, but he's here now, wrapped in Castiel's down comforter and parsing the edge with weary eyes.

Castiel drags a rickety lawn chair over to a prime spot for watching the sun rise and guides Dean into it, pushing his legs wide enough Castiel can slide between them. The chair groans in protest, having grown used to Castiel's frame being the only one on it, but accommodates them both comfortably.

"I'm sorry I've kept you up," Castiel mutters, sliding a cigarette between his lips and sparking a small flame from his flimsy pink lighter. The bright orange glow against the dark sky wavers as he draws it close to his mouth but remains long enough for him to light his cigarette. "It's been two years, but my nightmares are still worse this time of year, like my body's reliving it."

Dean's arms snake around his waist, pulling the comforter around them both, and he reclines himself against Dean's chest, letting out a small sigh when Dean presses his face into the crook of his neck.

"Dude," he mutters, his voice rough from lack of sleep. "You do  _ not _ need to apologize. This type of shit isn't something you can control."

"I know. But I wish things weren't that way." Castiel puffs on his cigarette, blowing smoke through a small O shaped opening in his lips and welcoming the calm that settles through his system as his cigarette dwindles.

Dean's hands are under his sweater now, their presence welcome on Castiel's bare skin, and he lets his eyes slide closed, breathing in the early morning air and reveling in the hush that blankets the sleepy city.

Before Dean had shown up yesterday, every bit of Castiel had thought he wanted to be alone. But having Dean with him, distracting him with baths, and blanket forts, old television, and ramblings about life at the station has made what might have been an impossible day bearable for Castiel.

It's shown him he isn't alone. No matter how much he tries to believe he is.

"I'm not angry at you, you know," Castiel states after a drawn-out silence. "For finding out about my brother, I mean. After Balthazar showed up, I figured it was only a matter of time before you got curious and found out. I was actually relieved to think I wouldn't have to tell you."

"You know you could've though, right?"

Castiel nods, pulls another cigarette from the pack resting on his lap. He's only got four left, but it's enough to at least get him through the morning. "I just didn't know what to say," he offers.

Dean nibbles gently at Castiel's neck. "I know."

It grows quiet again, and the sun begins to make its steady ascent across the horizon. The sky has melted from gray to purple and now burns orange, sunlight tingeing the bottoms of the clouds in a bright, golden glow.

Even with Dean's chest pressed warm and snug against Castiel's back, his mind is still a mess of thoughts, angry memories itching at the walls of his brain. All he's ever done is shove those memories to the deepest crags of himself and heap dirt on them when they threatened to surface.

Now they're coming to light, and he feels there's only one thing he can really do to confront them.

" _ Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy _ ," he says quietly, his skin crawling and bile rising in his throat. He's never talked about Jimmy since his passing, not with anyone, and doing so now feels like walking against a strong gale wind, some unseen force pushing at him in opposition.

But he can't hold onto these words anymore, needs to set them free, send them floating, like dandelion seeds. There's no longer room for them inside of him, never really was to begin with, and it just makes sense to let them all out, up here on the roof, with a few stray stars still beaming in the heavens and Dean's warmth seeping in through the thick blend of Castiel's sweater where the wind can carry them away.

"Hmmmm?" Dean murmurs, his nose cool against the back of Castiel's neck, but his breath warm and his presence a solid weight, grounding Castiel.

"That's what he-  _ Jimmy _ \- that's what Jimmy had. It's an asymptomatic heart condition where a part of the heart, the myocardium, is thickened. We didn't know until he-" Castiel swallows, and Dean hugs him tighter.

"He'd passed out the week before," Castiel continues, "but he was told it was because he wasn't drinking enough water during track practice. So, Jimmy drank more water. And that was the only warning before-" He stops, unable to continue.

"You don't have to talk about this," Dean reminds him when he pauses, feeling cold all over and suddenly so,  _ so _ tired.

Castiel closes his eyes for a beat, takes a deep breath. "Yes, I do," he maintains. "I never have, and I can't- I can't hold on to it anymore."

Dean finds the column of Castiel's neck with his lips again, peppering warm, soft kisses to the sensitive skin there before replying, "Okay."

In one long, shaky breath Castiel retells all the details of Jimmy's death: how it happened while they were away at college, that it was during a Saturday practice, how Castiel was there to photograph images for the school newspaper. He describes in detail seeing Jimmy collapse on the track, rushing to his side, and screaming for help while Balthazar performed CPR until the ambulance arrived.

"They wouldn't let me ride with him," Castiel shudders, shifting against Dean in an attempt to calm the unease that's coursing through him. His body seems to be at war with itself, fighting to keep the secrets that have been buried within it for so long, yet shoving them closer and closer to the surface. "Balthazar drove me to the hospital. Somehow, I knew what would be waiting for me when we arrived, but it didn't make it any less shocking. I remember being so weak, unable to look at anyone or even really stand. I should have been stronger for him. For everyone. But I just couldn't be."

"Cas, no one expected you to be strong."

"He would have wanted me to be strong, Dean," Castiel counters, emotion edging into his voice. "He would have been strong if it had been me. But I'm not like him; I'm a mess. I've been a mess for so long I don't even know how not to be one anymore." Hot tears spill out of his eyes, tracking down his cheeks in the cool morning air. He never cried over Jimmy's death. Not on the track, or at the hospital, not at the funeral, not in the two years since it happened. Something felt wrong about it, like crying would be accepting that his brother was gone, and Castiel never did accept it.

Even now he's not sure he's ready to do so.

When his second cigarette burns out, he shifts in the chair, turning to rest his head against Dean's shoulder, and closes his eyes. "He was my best friend," Castiel murmurs, "and I haven't really figured out how to live without him yet."

Dean buries a kiss in Cas’s hair, but doesn't otherwise respond, and at that moment, more than ever, Castiel is grateful for Dean in his life.

The city wakes in stages. For a while it feels like Castiel and Dean are the only two people in the whole town, but then movements of life swell beneath them and soon the sounds of vehicles are a constant and the smell of exhaust hangs heavy in the air.

It's a car horn blaring on a nearby street that pulls Castiel from the doze he slipped into some time between dropping a couple years worth of mourning in Dean's lap and melting against his chest as tears slid down his face against his own will.

Castiel heaves a heavy sigh and brings a hand up to rest on Dean's cheek, planting a kiss on the knob of the other man's jaw in a silent thank you.

For a long time Castiel had worried Dean would walk out on him if he ever fell apart. Now he knows how wrong he was.

"You ready to head back down?" Dean asks, rubbing a hand along the heated skin of Castiel's hip. The pads of his fingers are well worked but soft, and if they had something more stable than a worn lawn chair underneath them, Castiel might suggest they stay just like this for a little while longer. But then hiding away in the blanket fort with Dean wrapped around him while they both get a decent amount of sleep sounds equally as appealing, and so he nods minutely and wills himself to sit.

The chair creaks as they stand, a weary sort of sound, and Castiel shoves his dwindling pack of American Spirits into his back pocket and palms his lighter. Dean pulls him close, draping his arms around Castiel's waist.

"I'd like to go out later," Castiel declares as Dean nuzzles at the underside of his jaw. "If that's alright."

"Sounds good to me. Where do you wanna go?"

"I don't know," Castiel admits, because he hasn't really thought much further than not spending the entire day wallowing in his self-pity. "Food might be nice; after I've slept off my hangover, of course."

"Of course."

They traipse back down to Castiel's apartment and settle themselves on Cas’s mattress, Dean with his back to Castiel and smelling like the lemongrass and avocado bath bomb they used the night before.

Castiel slots a leg between Dean's and wraps an arm around his chest, filled with a warmth that pushes out all the ice inside of him when Dean tangles their fingers together.

"Hey, Cas," Dean utters, voice scratchy and thick.

"Yes."

" _ I _ think you're strong."

A lump forms in Castiel's throat and tears prick at his eyes, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, it's not because of Jimmy. 

~

After an extended nap and a shower, Dean drives them over to German Village. They have a late lunch at Schmidt’s and spend what Dean deems a ridiculous amount of time combing through the shelves at the Book Loft (despite the fact that he ends up purchasing three books, and Castiel leaves with none).

They wind up at Schiller Park where they walk around a pond as the weather turns cool, and the sun beams down on them through an umbrella of brightly colored leaves.

After a while they sit by the water's edge and people watch, reveling in the crisp smells of autumn and the faint breeze that dances through the air.

Castiel misses taking pictures most this time of year, with the vibrant colors and the soft lighting that covers the earth. The urge to photograph is stronger now than it has been in a long time.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Dean wonders, bumping his shoulder against Castiel's gently. He's been the ever-quiet companion for the past little while, seemingly content to allow Castiel to wade through his own thoughts for a bit, and while he's been grateful for Dean's attentive intuition, conversation is a welcome distraction.

"Photography," Castiel confesses, his eyes landing on a soft ripple in the middle of the pond. "I miss it."

"You should start again," Dean offers, and sometimes Castiel wonders if it really is that easy. He's just never been brave enough to find out.

"I boxed up all of my equipment with Jimmy's things. Everything is in a storage unit back where I was living before." He tugs on a patch of grass, coming away with a handful of blades. Reaching over, he sprinkles the grass on Dean's thigh, watching as some pieces land on his jeans while others slide back to the earth.

Dean catches Castiel's hand and intertwines their fingers, raising their conjoined hands to press a kiss against Cas’s knuckles. "Where's that?"

"Chicago."

"I'm guessing you haven't been back since?"

Castiel brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. "No. I moved back in with my mother after the funeral, she thought it would be good for me to be at home in a familiar environment, but it just made things worse. It triggered my OCD – which she's never dealt with well anyway – and everything reminded me of Jimmy. We fought one day, and she told me to get out, so after she went to work I got all my stuff out and left. I haven't spoken with her since."

"You ran away?"

"I didn't run away, she kicked me out. She made everything regarding Jimmy's death about her. Including my mourning, and when I didn't do things her way, she said she expected me gone by the time she got home."

"Is that why you changed your last name? So, your mom wouldn't find you?" Dean asks, his gaze probing along Castiel's face. There are flecks of gold in the other man's green eyes – brilliant in the light – and freckles that are stark against his skin. For a moment Castiel is distracted by how appealing Dean's face is. Especially without all the punk garb weighing down his features. 

"While I doubt my mother would have looked for me, yes," Castiel finally responds, "anyone, really. I wasn't completely inconspicuous though, Edlund was Jimmy's middle name - I just needed something different, though, to get away from the Novak name. But even if my mother does know where I'm at, she hasn't tried to contact me.”

“And you came to Ohio because?”

“Because Ruby offered me a job and a place to live. I needed a fresh start, and I wanted to get my life in order. You can see how vociferously I failed at that."

"You didn't fail," Dean counters, his expression resolute. Castiel worries at his bottom lip for a beat before looking away, Dean's stare too heavy on his face.

"It feels like I have," he says quietly. Thoughts of Jimmy cloud his brain, and he can't shake the disappointment he feels his brother would have over the life Castiel is – or rather isn't – living.

Dean's hand is warm as it curls around his shoulder and tugs him close against Dean's side. "Hey," he says into Castiel's hair, "sometimes life's lemons are just too sour to make lemonade."

"That was terrible," Castiel huffs, chuckling low and quiet. Dean laughs with him, his nose buried in the bird's nest that is Castiel's hair.

"I fucking tried, asshole."

A small smile tugs at Castiel's lips. "I know you did."

"Bottom line is, you're not a failure, Cas, alright? Just because you aren't out there huggin' everybody and figuring out how to obtain world peace doesn't mean you've failed. You lost someone. That changes you."

Castiel is silent, reflecting on the past several years of his life and how he's spent them drunk, stoned, holed up in his apartment with only Meg for company. He's been on the knife edge of numb and a complete fucking mess for so long now that he's almost forgotten what it's like to lead a normal life, one without running from his past and hiding from his future.

Then Dean came along, and suddenly all the rules had changed. Life wasn't so dull; he almost felt like he could breathe again. And even that Castiel tried to destroy at one point.

"You know, I think about my mom every day?" Dean's voice is quiet, sharing a piece of himself with Castiel that no one else has ever been made privy to before. "I get scared sometimes that I'll forget her: what she looked like, how she smelled, what it felt like to hug her. It's been twenty years, but I still worry about losing her completely."

Castiel nods. That's part of what makes things so hard. Some days the idea of moving on feels like forgetting, and forgetting seems more terrifying than hurting. So instead he clings to the hurt and refuses to move on.

"What was he like?" Dean asks after another beat of silence, faltering, like he knows the question might hurt.

Castiel thinks for a moment before answering. "He was happy," he leads with. "But also, mischievous. He had a lot of secrets. I was the only person that knew them all. I think that was hard on my mother."

"Were you terrors?" Dean questions, a lopsided grin curling at his lips. Castiel smiles, too, remembering distinctly a time when his father told Castiel that he and Jimmy were driving their mother to drink. Michael always had a suspicion Jimmy wasn't the ideal child he made himself seem like, he just never knew how right he was.

"I was. Or so my mother thought. Jimmy on the other hand was my mother's perfect boy, the epitome of what she wanted in a child. He was an athlete; he was charismatic and funny,  well liked at school... To Naomi, Jimmy was the best type of child, and I was the worst.

"I probably should have hated him for being the favorite, but he was my best friend, the only person in my family who was important to me. He protected me from my mother's wrath, and I protected his secrets."

"So, you guys were close."

"Indubitably." 

Silence settles between them, and Dean takes the opportunity to thread his fingers through the hair at the base of Castiel’s skull, tug him close and brush their lips together. "You wanna get out of here?"

Castiel nods. "Yes."

~

They find themselves on the outskirts of town, resting against the hood of Dean's car and watching the city light up against a blood orange sky. The temperature has dropped since they left Schiller Park, and Castiel wonders if stopping for ice cream was really their best idea.

He pushes into Dean's side as a shiver wracks through him and sucks on his spoon to hide a smile. There's a strange sort of enjoyment that comes from watching Dean eat brightly colored ice cream.

After a moment he dips his spoon into Dean's cup and procures a small helping, bringing it to his mouth and earning himself a dagger-filled glance from Dean. " _ Dude, _ " Dean protests.

Castiel takes the bite, fruity flavors bursting across his tongue, and stares right back at Dean, innocence masking his features. "I wanted to try it," he explains.

"You've never had Superman ice cream?" Judgmental surprise edges out the glare in Dean’s eyes.

"No." Castiel takes another bite of his own ice cream which, in his opinion, is much better than Dean's.

Dean snickers. "It's because you get crap like  _ mocha almond fudge _ ."

"Mocha almond fudge happens to be my favorite."

"Yeah," Dean says around a bite, "because you're a weirdo."

Castiel smiles and shakes his head.

When their ice cream is gone, Dean throws their cups away, and Castiel pins him against the side of the car, slipping his arms beneath Dean's jacket and nuzzling against his neck. "I'm cold," he whines, pressing their bodies flush, greedy for the warmth.

"Do you  _ own _ a coat?" Dean gripes as he wraps his arms around Castiel's back. Castiel ignores him and fixes his lips to Dean's heated skin, sucking lazily. He happens to own a very warm navy-blue peacoat that Ruby talked him into buying a few years ago, but leeching warmth from Dean was deemed most enjoyable, so the coat hasn't left his wardrobe all season.

"I don't need a coat," he finally murmurs against Dean's skin. "I have you."

"You're not giving me a hickey, are you?" Dean asks after a moment, seeming to realize Castiel's been working his mouth over the same stretch of skin for quite some time.

"Yes."

"Dude,  _ no _ . The guys will ream my ass at the station."

"I should be the only one reaming your ass, Winchester." He moves to nibble at the bolt of Dean's jaw then tugs at his earlobe with his teeth, Dean's piercings cold against his tongue.

"You know what I mean," Dean grumbles.

Castiel cups Dean's face in his hands, kisses at the side of his mouth and just below his nose. "So, you're saying I can no longer leave my marks on you?" He pitches his voice to an octave that sends a shiver down Dean's spine. Castiel smiles, hovering just a breath away from the other man's mouth.

"I didn't say that..."

"Just not where  _ the guys _ can see, right?"

"I feel like this could end very badly for me if I don't answer correctly." Dean shifts against the car, moving to close the gap between his mouth and Castiel's and looking almost frantic when Castiel moves back a hair, denying him.

"Trust that feeling, Dean," Castiel says as he reaches down to cup Dean in his jeans, squeezing gently until Dean gasps.

"Okay," Dean croaks, " _ okay _ . Anywhere you want, just fucking kiss me already."

Castiel obliges, sealing their mouths together and working the fly of Dean's jeans open with one hand while the other curls around the back of Dean's neck. When the button pops open he slides down Dean's zipper and finds him half hard in his jeans and extremely responsive to Castiel's touch.

"Wait," Dean pants against his mouth, reaching behind him and patting along the car.

Confused Castiel pulls away, eyes narrowing as he studies Dean's flushed cheeks. " _ Wait _ ?"

Dean huffs, shaking his head and dragging Castiel back in as he reaches for the door handle behind him. "In the car," he explains between kisses. He yanks the door open and pulls Castiel in with him.

"There isn't room," Castiel grouses, but Dean bunches himself up against the far door, one leg pressed up against the back seat, the other dangling off the edge. Castiel smirks. "I can see you've thought a lot about this."

Dean offers him a cheeky grin in return. "You have no idea."

Castiel closes them in and settles himself between Dean's legs, working Dean's hardening length out of the slit in his boxer shorts. He moves in for another kiss, and when Dean is resting hot and heavy in his hand, he bends and takes him into his mouth.

"God,  _ fuck _ ," Dean mutters, his head falling back to thunk lightly against the window. A hand makes its way into Castiel's hair, and Dean tugs gently.

Castiel pulls off, wiping a hand across his mouth. "Is this how you imagined it?" he asks, voice husky and hair a wreck. Dean's panting, writhing, and it's nice to see him be the one to fall apart for a change. Castiel reaches down and tugs at Dean lazily, waiting for an answer.

"Might have been a little more butt stuff," Dean grunts, having half the mind to look embarrassed.

"I see." Heat pools in Castiel's belly knowing Dean's thought about this, here,  _ them _ . "You or me?" He twists his hand just so, causing Dean to buck up into his grip.

"Me," he grates, "me,  _ fuck, baby, please _ ."

Castiel nods, leaning back and pulling at Dean's jeans until they slide down to his knees. "These will need to go then," he instructs.

Dean makes a gracious effort of wiggling out of his jeans until he's finally got one leg out of them, and they pool around the ankle of his other. Castiel's are somewhere on the floor of the Impala now too, and he leans over Dean, nipping at his jaw and kissing the side of his mouth. "Lube?"

"Glove box," Dean stammers, hands reaching up to cup Castiel's face and draw him in for a long, open-mouthed kiss.

Castiel hums. "You  _ have _ thought about this." He folds himself over the front seat, his body bending awkwardly, and Dean takes the opportunity to rub his hand up Cas’s thigh, squeeze covetously at an ass cheek.

With bottle in hand Castiel settles himself back between Dean's legs. "Anything else I should know about your fantasy?" he wonders, trailing slick fingers down, down, down until he's sliding one into Dean's heat. Dean clenches around him at first but relaxes when Castiel rubs the thumb of his other hand soothingly against Dean's thigh.

"Nope," Dean grates out, "this about covers it."

Castiel bends to seal his mouth around Dean's cock again as he works him open. Dean chokes out a desperate laugh, and Castiel blinks up at him through his lashes.

"Something funny, Winchester?" he asks, sliding in a third finger.

"No,  _ God _ , no. Just feels so –  _ ah, dammit _ – good."

Castiel crooks his fingers inside Dean, and Dean arches, grapples at Castiel's arms. " _ I'm good, _ " he pants. "C'mon, baby, get inside me."

"Lie down," Castiel requests, working off his underwear. Dean does as he's told, and after knocking his head against the roof of the Impala and spreading Dean's legs ever wider, Castiel positions himself and pushes forward.

Dean is tight, more so than Castiel remembers him being the last time, and for a moment he forgets to breathe.

Dean, though, is breathing hard enough for the both of them, watching Castiel with eyes blown wide, and mouth hanging slightly agape. The sight sets Castiel in motion again.

Everything hones in to a base level instinct, the way their bodies connect, moving together as one. It's purely visceral, being with Dean this way, like their bodies speak the same language, know how to give and take in all the right ways.

Dean moans Castiel's name, grips at his arms where they bracket Dean's head. "C'mon, baby," he grunts, his voice barely distinguishable against the heavy breaths heaving from his chest. "So good, Cas, so good."

" _ Dean _ ," Castiel moans. When that familiar sensation begins to build in his gut, that feeling of too much and not enough, he reaches between them, wraps his fingers around Dean's erection and pumps him in time with his thrusts.

When Dean comes, minutes later, it's with Cas’s name on his lips. The word falls from his mouth in a breathy babble, and Castiel's orgasm hits him, drawing from him a throaty groan that he lets loose against Dean's neck.

Dean breathes his name once more, quiet, fading, and with thighs burning Castiel drapes himself atop the other man, mouthing kisses against the bruise he left earlier and focusing on the wild beat of his heart.

"I'm not going to be able to move tomorrow," he says when he's able, chest rising and falling heavily against Dean's.

Dean chuckles, strokes a hand down Cas’s back. "I'm not going to be able to move  _ now _ ."

"I'm comfortable like this." Castiel presses his nose against Dean's sweat damp skin, and sighs, letting the euphoric high of post-orgasm ebb through him, making his brain fuzzy and his limbs heavy.

If Dean never asks Castiel to get off of him, it will be too soon.

~

Castiel is dreading going home to an empty apartment. Even just a few short months ago, he never would have placed himself here, next to Dean, smelling of sex and not wanting to be  _ alone _ . Yet here he is. And for all the times he's attempted to convince himself Dean didn't matter, that he wouldn't shape Castiel past their latest fuck, he's found himself to be so very wrong.

The thing about Dean is, sometimes he takes up so much space in Castiel's life, there's almost no room left for the anguish he still feels over losing Jimmy. And beyond that, Dean is a good person, kind, attentive, giving. He instills within Castiel a desire to try, to stretch, to  _ live _ . He makes Castiel feel things he never thought he'd feel again after his brother died.

"How you doin' over there, Almond Mocha Fudge?"

Castiel watches the city blur past out the window, bright lights against an ocean of black. "If your intent is to lure me into calling you Superman, you're going to be sorely disappointed." He glances at Dean, his sex mussed hair, easy grin, and a fluttery feeling forms behind his breastbone.

"I actually prefer Batman," Dean offers.

Castiel scoffs. "Batman's just a man with a bunch of gadgets. He's no superhero."

"Oh, and Superman is?"

"His name literally has the word 'super' in it, Dean."

"Superman isn't even his real name,  _ Cas _ ." Dean's tone matches Castiel's own, and Castiel swallows a smile, falls quiet for a beat.

"You know at one point in my life, I thought I'd get a Superman tattoo," he admits, gaze floating back out the window. "On my lower back."

"You wanted a tramp stamp?" Dean questions, surprise coloring his tone.

Castiel nods. "I was very young."

"What stopped you?"

Castiel smiles at the memory, being so set on doing it, mostly just to piss his mother off, but also because he'd found Kal-El so relatable as a child. He hadn't had much exposure to many television shows or mainstream entertainment growing up, but he and Jimmy had spent hours at the local library, combing through comic books and graphic novels as pre-teens.

Jimmy had loved them all. Castiel had only ever been interested in Superman.

"Jimmy talked me out of it," he finally answers. "He wasn't against me doing something to deliberately anger our mother, but he knew better than I did that I'd hate the tattoo later. He told me, 'Just wait a year, Cas. If you still want it in a year, I'll drive you to the parlor myself.' A year later he did take me, but I was over the Superman tattoo at that point, so I got something else."

"The wings?" Dean wonders.

"Yes."

"The Superman tat might have been pretty cool though," Dean jokes, throwing a smile at Castiel.

Castiel's lips quirk. "I have the underwear instead."

"Which I definitely appreciate."

When they pull up in front of Castiel's apartment, he doesn't immediately get out. Instead he sits studying Dean in the silvery light of the moon and thinks about asking him to stay. He feels so full in places that have felt empty for too long, and it's almost too much to even wonder how they got to this point.

"You gonna be okay alone tonight?" Dean asks, tone gentle.

"Yes," Castiel manages. “I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.”

“I can come up, help if you want.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you,” Castiel explains, reaching across the seat to take Dean’s hand and cup it between his own. It feels important to treat this delicately, to make certain Dean understands it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the mess inside Castiel’s head. “It’s just something I have to do myself.”

Dean nods, “I can just watch TV or something, stay out of your hair.”

“It’ll only make more nervous and I don’t want to make you feel bad if I have to ask you to leave if I can’t focus.”

Dean opens his mouth, surely to protest, but Castiel squeezes his hand, heart twisting uncomfortably at the hopeless look in Dean’s eyes. “Dean, please. One hard thing at a time.”

Dean nods, but his face shows his irresolution. "You'll call, right? If you need anything?"

Castiel slides across the seat, cupping Dean's face in his hands. "I'll be okay," he promises. Because he will, he has to be. It's not as if he hasn't been through this alone before, and this time he wasn't alone. He had Dean.

Castiel kisses all the words he wants to say but doesn't know how to into Dean's mouth, eyes shut tight like this feeling will get away from him if he opens them. "You make me very happy," he murmurs, resting his forehead against Dean's.

"As happy as two scoops of almond mocha fudge?" Dean asks, voice hushed.

Castiel smiles. "Happier."

**:::**

The past couple of Thanksgivings have been a complete shit show. Two years ago, Jimmy had just died, and everyone sat around and ate like nothing had even happened. Last year Castiel spent the day holed up in his apartment, drinking too much and considering calling his mother.

Not that Thanksgivings before that were much better.

The thought of having a normal Thanksgiving, whatever the textbook definition of  _ normal _ may be, seems almost laughable.

Yet, here he is, seated at a long table draped in a red gingham tablecloth, in Dean's living room, surrounded by faces now familiar to him and feeling comfortable.

There's been no alcohol, save the one pumpkin ale he and Dean shared before dinner, and instead of sitting bleary eyed in front of Freaks and Geeks, he helped in the kitchen, learning how to make stuffed mushrooms and swatting Dean's hands away from the sweet potatoes. It all felt so normal, so unlike any Thanksgiving Castiel's ever experienced, and he's almost surprised he doesn't feel more unsettled.

But Dean is at his side, knee brushing his beneath the table, a smile on his face, and Castiel is warm.

He looks down at his plate, pushes cranberries around, mixing them with his turkey, but skirting them out of the way of the lump of homemade mashed potatoes and thinks about Jimmy. Thanksgivings with him were hard enough; Thanksgivings without him seemed almost unbearable. Until now.

"You okay?" Dean wonders privately, reaching for Castiel's hand under the table. Castiel squeezes once, offering Dean a smile.

"Yes," he answers, and it's true. He is okay. It's a strange feeling, being with people he's only known for several months and feeling more at home than he ever did under his own roof, but it's a good strange. One he could get used to.

"Better finish your dinner," Dean says, grinning back at Cas. "'Cause you know what comes after dinner."

"Pie?"

** Dean's grin broadens. " _ Pie _ ," he confirms. **

** ~ **

All through dinner Castiel thinks about his family, Jimmy, his father and his father's boyfriend, his mother, and there's a small part of him that misses his parents. It's an incredibly small part, but it's there, flickering dimly.

When Dean sets down two plates in front of him, three slices of pie on each, his thoughts are temporarily derailed, and he blinks up at Dean. "That's a lot of pie."

"We have six different kinds," Dean explains, "didn't know which one's your favorite."

"I don't have a favorite," Castiel admits as Dean settles in next to him. Dean glances at him, face unbelieving.

"What do you mean you don't have a favorite?"

Castiel shrugs. "I don't eat pie enough to have formed an opinion on a favorite flavor, I suppose. I didn't eat much of it at all until I fell under your influence."

Dean frowns, hands Castiel a clean fork, and pushes one of the plates closer to him. "Educate yourself," he demands.

Castiel huffs and rolls his eyes, but he accepts the fork and spears it through the tip of one of the slices in front of him. "Blackberry," Dean exaggerates as Castiel takes the bite into his mouth, warm, gooey filling clinging to his lips.

Dean leans in, kisses it away. "So?" he wonders quietly, green eyes framed by thick lashes that send Castiel's stomach twisting.

Castiel smiles. "Best pie I've had in a long time."

Between the two of them they finish off all six slices. Castiel determines lemon is his favorite, which Dean seems to find acceptable enough. Castiel reasons he could have picked any random flavor and Dean still would have approved.

After dinner the two of them end up on dishes duty. They stand side by side, Dean elbows deep in lemon-scented bubbles, and scrub away all the vestiges of Thanksgiving dinner.

"You're quiet today," Dean points out, handing Castiel a newly cleaned dish. Castiel dunks it in the suds-free water and sets it on the drying rack.

"I'm reflecting," Castiel explains. He pulls a handful of rinsed off silverware out of his side of the sink and adds them to the drying rack as well. His family has been on his mind all day, and while thoughts of them haven't brought the typical sort of dreadful feelings Castiel normally feels when thinking of them, he is still trying to work through it all. It’s been an emotionally trying week.

"Good reflecting, or bad reflecting?"

Castiel shrugs. "Just reflecting. Being here has made it very apparent that I haven't spoken to my mother or father in quite some time. I've never really had- this, but what I did have was mine." He wonders if he's making any sense, or if it all just sounds like gibberish to Dean. But Dean nods, hands him another plate.

"Maybe you should call," he suggests, tone gentle, eyes trained on his hands disappearing beneath the bubbles in the sink.

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"'Hi' is always a good start." Dean's shoulder presses against his own, warm and solid. Castiel pushes into the touch and considers Dean's words.

When everything is cleaned up, Bobby turns the game on and barks at everyone to shut up and watch or get out of the room. He ends up with most everyone joining him on the couch, which he grumbles about profusely, but cracks open a beer instead of instructing them to leave, and Dean tugs Castiel towards the basement.

"I have something for you," he says, eyes glittering and smile pleased.

Castiel allows himself to be led down the stairs and pushed gently into the couch. He watches Dean curiously as he places a DVD in the player then joins him on the couch, stretching an arm across the back of it and curling a hand around Cas’s shoulder, bidding him closer.

When the familiar opening scene of  _ A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving _ appears on the screen, a lump rises in Castiel's throat, a wave of emotions sweeping through him. He can feel Dean's gaze on him, and he turns so he can meet Dean's eyes.

"Dean," he says quietly.

"We don't have to watch it," Dean is quick to say, "if it's too much."

Castiel shakes his head, feels tears welling in his eyes, but doesn't allow them to fall. "I want to," he assures the other man.

Dean smiles at him, nods. "Okay."

Castiel leans in and brushes their lips together, one hot tear escaping and landing on his cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs, brushing it away.

Dean kisses him again, and they avert their attention to the screen.

It's hard watching the movie, Jimmy lingering on the edges of his brain the entire time, but it also makes him feel closer to his brother, something he never expected to feel after his passing.

Having Dean next to him, chuckling at Snoopy and making comments about how Charlie Brown "needs to grow a pair," forms a sort of bridge for Castiel between his past and the present, unveiling a tiny glimmer of hope in him that there's room for both in his life.

He clings to that glimmer.

As the closing credits roll, Jo, Ruby, and Sam come traipsing down the stairs.

"I told you he was down here," Jo mutters seconds before she rounds the couch, staring down at Dean with an eyebrow raised. "You're not hiding are you, Winchester?"

"Why would I be hiding?"

Jo crosses her arms over her chest knowingly. "Because it's almost time for football, and you don't want to get your ass handed to you,  _ again _ ."

"Again?" Dean grouses, "Pretty sure you and Sam lost by  _ seven points _ last year. What is this ‘again’ crap?"

"That was you, Dean," Sam huffs. He shakes his head but smiles down at his brother, and Dean shrugs. 

"Whatever makes you feel better, Sammy."

Sam casts a glance at Castiel. "You gonna play too, Cas?"

"I am not one for contact sports," he states, glancing at the trio surrounding him. In all honesty, he doesn't even remember the last time he played football. He almost always found a way out of it in high school gym and had never really understood those who enjoyed being tackled to the ground just to maintain control of an oddly shaped ball.

"I think Jo's about the only one who  _ is _ one for contact sports," Dean offers. His grin is hopeful, and Castiel buckles under the sight.

“C’mon, Cas,” Sam urges, “Ruby and I have a bet going.”

Castiel looks to his cousin who’s been unceremoniously quiet. Her arms are folded across her chest, her lips pulled into a thin line.

“What’s the bet?”

“She said you won’t play, I said you will.” At that Ruby slugs Sam in the shoulder.

“You weren’t supposed to tell him, Dumbo, he’s supposed to decide on his own.”

Castiel worries his bottom lip. “She said I wouldn’t play?" Sam nods, and Ruby rolls her eyes. "Okay, I’ll play. But only if I'm on Sam's team."

Sam's grin is wide as Ruby huffs her irritation. "Hear that, Dean? Your boyfriend wants to be on the winning team.  _ Sam's team _ ."

"Yeah, I heard him, Sammy," Dean grumbles. He stands from the couch, pulling Cas up with him, and they follow Sam and Jo up the stairs.

"You sure you want to be on the Moose's team?" he asks. "He only wins 'cause he's got Jo. Sam is actually shit at football."

"Yes," Castiel responds. "I'm sure."

The air outside is cool, the light fading, and Castiel finds himself on one side of a worn football with Sam and Jo at his flanks. Dean's team consists of Ash and Victor, Charlie and Ruby opting not to participate – how they got out of it, Castiel will never know – and Ellen drags Bobby outside to help ref.

"M'team's losing anyway," Bobby grumbles, stomping over towards the football with a beer still in his hand. Despite his protests, he looks about as excited about the game as Jo.

"Alright, kids, you know the rules," Ellen tells them, eyeing both teams with a warning glance. "No tackling unless you want to be tackled back, otherwise, two hand touch. End zones are there-" she motions to one end of the yard, then the other, "and there. First one to three wins."

As the teams head off in different directions to strategize, Dean winks at Castiel before turning away from him. Castiel follows Jo and wonders what the hell he's gotten himself into.

"Alright, Edlund, what do you know about football?" Jo inquires when they've herded themselves into a corner of the yard.

"Nothing?"

Jo rolls her eyes and heaves a deep sigh. "Figures," she mutters. "Alright, you and Sam are on defense. Sam's gonna cover me, you keep the other team from scoring. That means if someone from the other team is running towards their end zone with the ball, you tackle or tag them. Don't let them close to the end zone. You with me?"

"That's all I have to do?"

"That's all you have to do," Jo confirms. "I'm running the ball so neither of you will need to worry about that." She eyes Sam incredulously, " _ Sam _ ."

Sam sputters, hands gesticulating defensively. "It came right to me, what was I supposed to do, just stand there?"

" _ Pass it to me _ ," Jo hisses.

"Time!" Ellen shouts. Jo reiterates to Sam that he's to stay away from the ball, and then they're spreading out on the lawn and facing down Dean's team.

For as tiresome of a sport as Castiel finds football, competing against Dean does give him a determined set in his shoulders and a thrill pumping through him.

"Sorry in advance for whooping your ass, babe," Dean offers as they crouch across from each other.

"That's awfully presumptuous of you," Castiel retorts, and then Bobby is calling the game to action and everyone is scattering across the yard.

Dean's team scores first. Victor slips past Castiel and right on into the end zone, and Jo lets out a frustrated cry from across the yard. Castiel feels mildly guilty, but it does push him to move faster the next time the opposing team is that close to scoring.

Jo scores the next two touchdowns, and then they're running their final play as the sun dips below the horizon.

Jo's got the ball, is rushing to score what will be their winning point when Sam trips her while attempting to fend off Ash. With a yelp Jo goes careening towards the ground, and the ball rolls out of her grip.

In one swift movement, Dean takes control of the ball, barreling towards Castiel with a glint of purpose in his eyes and feigning to the left when he sees Castiel's gaze hone in on him. He almost slips past Cas, but Castiel is determined, slamming into Dean's chest and knocking him to the ground, landing on top of him so hard his brain rattles in his skull.

"Fuck," Dean wheezes beneath him. He reaches for the ball, twisting to get away, but then Jo is there, hand outstretched and just centimeters away from the ball. In an act of desperation Castiel grabs Dean's jaw in his hand and leans in to kiss him hard and frantic – and hopefully – distracting.

Dean groans but doesn't pull away, and Jo snatches the ball and rushes toward the opposite end of the yard, encouraging screams from Ellen and Sam licking at her heels as she runs.

Castiel licks into Dean's mouth as Jo crosses into the end zone, and just like that, the game is won.  

"That was a pretty dirty move, Cas," Dean pants as Castiel pulls away. Cas smirks down at Dean, gentle beams of sunlight pour down over his face, highlighting the flecks of gold in his eyes and the freckles on his nose and cheeks.

"If you didn't anticipate something like that from me, then you clearly don't know me very well."

Dean chuckles, drags Castiel in for another kiss. "Really fucking dirty."

~

Castiel is seated on Dean's front porch, a beer in one hand and Ruby’s phone in the other. He stepped out during everyone's second round of pie to call his mother, but he hasn't yet worked up the nerve to do so.

She's been on his mind all day, but he lacks the words needed to reach out to her. A big part of him still doesn't even want to contact her, some of the memories of how she'd reacted after Jimmy's death still too fresh and painful in his mind.

But, it has been a very long time.

As his beer dwindles, he pulls up Naomi's contact information, wondering whether her number is even the same. He'd changed his the day he'd left, for all he knows she's done the same. And it may be petty of him, but calling from Ruby’s phone feels safer. He may be ready to reach out, but he’s definitely not ready to give himself up. 

He takes the last swig of his beer and, with heart pounding, hits the call button, almost immediately hanging up but willing himself to remain on the line.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

"Hello?"

Her voice still holds that same cool formality about it, and it takes Castiel straight back to his childhood, reminds him what it's like to be on the other end of her strict presence.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, stares down at it for a beat before finally responding. "Mother?"

"Castiel?" Something soft edges into her tone, and he can't remember the last time he's heard her sound the way she does now.

"Hi," he says, remembering Dean's words. And he was right. It's not much, but it's a start.

Their conversation is slow at best, long pauses between brief bouts of information (Naomi's seeing someone, Castiel's father is in Bermuda for the holiday) and is riddled with awkward pleasantries that might be strange for a mother and son to exchange had they not been Castiel and Naomi.

After several minutes Naomi clears her throat, a nervous tick Castiel's only ever heard a handful of times, his mother otherwise completely composed and stone faced in nearly every situation.

"I'd like you to come home for Christmas," she says, and Castiel's stomach drops out, his eyes falling closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know," he replies as the sudden urge to disconnect the call hits him square in the chest. Talking with his mother on the phone is one thing. Seeing her face to face, being back in his old home is quite another.

"Everyone's going to be there, Castiel--your father and Inias, your father's brothers and their children. It's important to me that you're there, too."

Castiel bites his tongue, keeps himself from asking her why, and repeats his same answer from before. "I don't know."

Naomi sighs, clicking her tongue at him just like she always did when he was a child. "At least think about it, Castiel. We'd all like to see you. You know how important the holidays are to me."

"Yes," Castiel says. "I know."

"Thank you for calling me," she offers quietly. "It was good to talk to you."

"You too," Castiel answers.

There's a brief pause, and then the line disconnects. Castiel remains on the porch for a long while – staring out at the darkness unfolding in front of him – before finally heading back inside.

His mother's words stay with him for the rest of the evening and long throughout the week.


	17. Chapter 17

Dean blinks down at his course book with bleary eyes. He stopped paying attention to what's on the page some time ago, but he hasn't found a justifiable reason for taking a break yet.

His EMT training starts in less than a month, and he wants to be ready.

"Hey, Winchester." Ellie's voice sounds from the doorway, and Dean looks up to find her leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed over her chest and eyes sparkling, like she's got a secret.

Dean raises an eyebrow at her.

"You got a visitor."

Dean frowns, taps his pencil on his desk. "A visitor?"

Ellie nods. "C'mon," she urges, hefting her chin over her shoulder and leaving the room. Dean stands to follow her, his back groaning in protest after having been hunched over for so long.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Dean spots Castiel standing a few feet away from the front desk and looking just as frowny and adorable as ever. He's decked in one of Dean's t-shirts, the old AC/DC one he's had for months now, and a fitted navy cardigan, and grey beanie. He looks like he feels out of place, but Dean can't help but grin at him when their gazes meet.

"Hey, babe," Dean says as he approaches, one hand going to Castiel's hip, drawing him in for a kiss.

"Is it alright that I'm here?" Castiel wonders, clutching a Tupperware of something tightly in his grasp. Dean looks down at the container.

"Yeah, it's cool," he says. "I was just studying."

Castiel nods, chews on his bottom lip anxiously.

"Whatcha got there?"

"I baked," Castiel offers. There's pink tingeing his cheeks, and Dean's eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

"You baked?"

"Yes," he confirms, "brownies. For you and the platoon."

Dean's smile is wide. Castiel looks equal parts roguish and nervous, and Dean finds himself leaning in to kiss him again. "You trying to bribe them into liking you?" he jokes.

"Maybe a little."

"Wait, they don't have pot in them, do they?" Dean wonders, only partly serious.

Castiel narrows his eyes. "Yes, actually they do. I had some left over and thought, what better way to use it than to drug an entire team of public servicemen and women who are depended upon to save lives?"

"You're such an ass," Dean grumbles.

Castiel shrugs. "Don't ask ridiculous questions."

"Whatever."

Castiel beams at him, and Dean's chest feels full, warm.

"Alright, Betty Crocker, let's go."

Dean gives Cas the twenty-five-cent tour, introducing him to the other firefighters on duty and reveling in the way Castiel charms them all with his baked goods and big blue eyes. The guy may be about as prickly as a cactus and just as socially inept, but even Captain Miller seems to be wooed.

"You're welcome here any time," the captain says, mouth full, and eyes drooping in pleasure. "Long as you bring more brownies."

They find themselves alone in the classroom where Dean had been studying just moments before. "I think they like you," Dean offers, flashing Castiel a smile. It seems almost strange that Castiel would care at all what anyone else thinks of him, but Dean reasons it probably has more to do with the fact that the other firefighters are going to be staples in Dean's life from here on out and because they're important to Dean, they're important to Cas.

"Are you going to be home late?" Castiel wonders, eyes surveying the room. Dean's stomach flip flops. He isn't sure when Cas’s apartment became home, but then there really hasn't been a time it hasn't felt that way. He smiles, unable to stop it, a warmth in his chest swelling all the way up until it's pushing at the corners of his mouth. He wants to crowd Cas up against the wall, explore his mouth, whisper words into the crook of his neck that keep Dean up at night, begging to be said.

Castiel cocks his head. "What?" And that's when Dean realizes he's been doing an awful lot of smiling and very little talking in the last few seconds, so he shakes his head, grin still in place.

"I just like hearing you say that," he admits.

"Asking when you're going to be home? Dean, it's a standard question."

Dean snickers, shakes his head. "No." He supplies, "I mean, hearing you call your place home it's-" he clears his throat, "it's cool."

"You're there enough for it to be home." Castiel’s eyes glitter.

"I like being there."

"I like having you there." Castiel is blinking up at him now through the fringe of his lashes. He's not that much shorter than Dean, just an inch or so, but the tactic still works on him. Dean reaches out, winds his arms around Cas’s middle and pulls him in, sliding his lips over Castiel’s hurried – in fear of being caught – but with purpose.

They pull away just as Benny rounds the corner.

"I heard the famous Cas was here," he says, grinning at the two of them. Castiel eyes the man wearily, and Dean jumps to introduce them, putting some serious distance between himself and Cas.

"Cas, this is Benny, our lieutenant. Benny, Cas."

Castiel nods once in greeting, his body stiff.

"I heard there were brownies," Benny says.

Dean tugs the container out of Cas’s hand and offers it to Benny, watching out of the corner of his eye as Castiel sizes up the lieutenant.

Benny groans around a bite. "Are these from scratch?"

"Yes."

"He's been holding out on me," Dean comments, winking at Castiel. "I didn't know he could bake like this."

"Most people don't," Castiel says with a shrug, and Dean wonders what else it is he doesn't know about Castiel and how long it will take to learn it all. Years, probably, and every one of them Dean's looking forward to.

Benny reaches for another brownie.

After a beat they're joined by Ellie who also goes straight for a brownie, and then there's a sharp beep sounding throughout the fire house, a woman's voice chiming in tinny but clear over the intercom.

"Fire, engine 19, truck 7-" As she continues, Dean looks to Benny who's listening intently.

"That's us, crew."

Ellie nods. "Thanks for the goods, Cas." She smiles. "It was nice to meet you." After that she hurries out of the room.

"Good luck," Dean offers, closing the container and willing the knots in his stomach to calm. He's never been out on a call yet, but he always grows hyper-aware when the alarm sounds.

"You're on, brother," Benny informs Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just a ride along, not much you can do, but Captain wants you there."

"Wait, really?" Dean asks.

"Really."

The knots grow tighter. "Okay," he manages, swallowing hard. Benny leaves the room, and Dean looks at Castiel.

"I guess I'll see you later," he mutters, unable to keep the nerves out of his voice.

Castiel smiles, nods. "At home."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "At home." He presses one final kiss to the other man's lips, and then they part ways, Castiel heading for the exit, and Dean heading for the garage.

Dean doesn't suit up; he's told he'll need to remain out of the way but close, but when he climbs into the fire truck with Benny at his side and decked in half his firefighting gear, it hits Dean just how real this is. It may be just a ride along for him, but for whoever’s on the other end of that call, it's real life.

On the ride over, Benny informs Dean it might not be anything exciting. "Don't be too disappointed if it's just a fender bender," he says over the headset.

Dean nods, remembering all units respond no matter the circumstance. He hums Metallica under his breath, welcoming the calm that ebbs into his nerves as the familiarity of the tune resonates in his body, and waits.

When they arrive though – see the thick outpouring of smoke billowing into the air – it's clear this call is more than just a fender bender.

They pull up in a cul-de-sac, maneuvering out of the way of the police cars and ambulance already on site and when the truck is thrown into park, the firefighters flee in an orderly, but hasty, fashion.

Benny hangs back to squeeze Dean's knee.

"Post yourself by the ambulance," he tells Dean. "They know you're here. Anything they have time to tell you, they will."

Dean nods and follows him out of the truck, hurrying over to the ambulance with a nervous flutter in his chest. It isn't until he's standing there – in clear view of the home – that everything sinks in, hitting him full force like a batting ram to the chest.

He surveys the scene, the crumbling home, wreckage and ash already building up, and thinks of his mom, head spinning and bile rising in his throat.

He remembers the night a fire took Mary away from him, remembers his dad thrusting a baby Sam into his arms and yelling at him, _Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dean, go!_

Even from outside he could feel the hot lick of flames, the thick curl of smoke filling his house.

There are voices shouting all around him now, whether from his past or from the present he isn't sure, but for a moment it's as if time stands still and Dean's trapped somewhere in between. Flames are growing violent and angry before him, swallowing up everything in their path, and suddenly Dean is four years old, losing his mom all over again.

The world tilts sideways, and Dean reaches out a hand, grabbing on to whatever's closest to keep himself from tumbling to the ground. _Breathe_ , he begs of himself, _breathe_.

He shoves the memories viciously from his brain, replaces them with others, the smell of motor oil and the sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival wafting into Singer Automotive as he and Bobby fine tune engines and cuss out carburetors. He thinks about Sammy with his long floppy hair that's pulled up on top of his head more often than not these days, and about Cas in his stupid sweaters with his stupidly delicious brownies and huge blue eyes. It shouldn't be enough to weigh out that heavy memory of _death_ , but somehow, it is.

After a moment he feels steadier on his feet.

A paramedic brushes past him, drawing Dean's attention from the house just a few yards away and to the infant in the paramedic's arms. She's rambling off stats to the others in the truck in a quiet but firm voice and handing the baby over to another paramedic who immediately begins checking the child's vitals and sliding a small oxygen mask over her face.

"You're the volunteer, right? Dean?" The paramedic’s face is calm, sweet, and there's something about her presence that further sets Dean at ease.

"Yeah."

"I'm Layla, head paramedic tonight." She extends a hand, and Dean takes it, offering her a weak smile before his attention is averted back to the baby in the ambulance. _Sammy_ , he thinks. "I think she's okay," Layla offers. "They got her out pretty quick. Mom and dad are on their way too."

Dean nods. "That's good," he croaks, because even though he's never met this family before tonight, there's a bone deep gratitude inside him that this family's story had a better ending than his own. "Is there anything I can do?" He figures if he can stay busy, then he can keep his head on straight.

"She's good." The paramedic behind them announces. Layla shoots her a smile and looks back to Dean.

"Can you hold her while we get the parents stabilized? She needs some comfort."

Dean accepts the baby with shaking hands, holding her against his chest and securing the blanket tighter around her small frame. Layla places a gentle hand on Dean's arm, smiling light and encouraging. "Everyone's going to be okay, Dean," she reassures him.

Dean nods and forces himself to believe her.

~

When Dean arrives at Castiel's later that night, he's still shaken up. While everyone in the family ended up being okay – for which Dean is grateful – the scene was too real, too reminiscent to be easily pushed from his mind. What bothers him the most is even after twenty years there's still an invisible wound that has yet to scar over.

He waits for Cas to answer the door, heart heavy and wanting nothing more than to fall into a bottle and drink until his eyes refuse to stay open. But when Cas opens the door, hair a mess, and eyes half open, heavy with fatigue, the idea of drinking seems less desirable than just curling up with Cas.

"What happened?" Castiel asks, voice gravelly.

Tears spring to Dean's eyes for reasons he can't even begin to explain. Maybe it's the way Castiel knows, just by looking at him, that Dean's not okay, or maybe it's the vestiges of the night he's had, or a combination of both. But whatever it is, it doesn't matter because Castiel is wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist and pulling him into the apartment.

"It was a fire," Dean mutters, eyes tracking the ground. "House burned down. The family was okay, but I couldn't-" He stops, bites his lip, eyes rising to meet Castiel's who's staring at him intently, brow furrowed and gaze understanding.

"Dean," he bids.

Dean chokes back a sob, thickness rising in his throat, and tears stinging at his eyes. "What if I'm not strong enough to do this, Cas? What if I-" He doesn't finish, can't finish.

Castiel moves in close, cups Dean's face in his hands, his touch gentle, grounding. "Dean Winchester, you are the strongest man I know," his voice is full of a fierce conviction that Dean clings to.

A tear tracks down Dean's cheek, his lip trembling, and his eyes fall back to the floor.

Castiel pulls Dean to his chest, holds him with one arm around his waist, and the other stroking over his hair in gentle, soothing motions. “Let's get you into the shower,” he mutters, when Dean's body relaxes against him.

Dean doesn't respond, just allows himself to be led into the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes, Cas pushing him under the too hot spray and hugging Dean from behind.

There's a soft press of lips against his shoulder blade, and then Castiel rests his cheek against Dean's back, arms firm around Dean's middle. Dean brings his hands up to rest over Cas’s, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the silence: the steady presence at his back a calm he's been craving all night easing its way into his muscles.

“I was scared,” Dean admits, half hoping his words are so quiet they're swallowed by the sound of water pitter pattering against the tub like rain, the other half of him hoping Cas will hear him because he needs to be heard. He needs to share this burden. He needs the comfort of familiarity to keep his mind from straying back to his childhood.

Castiel kisses Dean's shoulder, an indication he's listening, and Dean keeps his eyes closed, the dimness somehow making him feel braver.

“What if I can't do this?” he ponders. “People might get hurt. People might die. And I can't- What if it's because of me? Firefighters couldn't save my mom that night, and what if I can't save people, too?”

“Dean,” Castiel says then, voice low and steady. Dean peels his eyes open, follows Cas’s hands as they guide him to turn. When he's facing Castiel, he blinks down at him, eyes searching. Castiel cups Dean's face in his hands. “You can't save everyone, my love, though you try.”

“Then what's the point?”

Castiel's thumbs stroke Dean's cheeks, a slow caress Dean leans into. “What if you could only save one person? Just one, Dean. Would you still do it?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers immediately, eyes hooked on Cas's.

“Why?”

Dean's quiet for a moment, mulling over Cas’s words. Dean _can't_ save everyone. But if he doesn't pursue this path he'll never save _anyone_.

But.

Castiel draws Dean in for a kiss, his hands sliding down either side of Dean's face and coming to land on his shoulders. “You are brave,” Castiel murmurs, pressing a kiss to each of Dean's shoulders before reaching for the soap. “And able.” He squirts a generous amount into his palm and lathers it over Dean's shoulders and chest, his neck and back, and arms. He spends time on every part of Dean, like he can scrub away the soot and the desperation clinging to Dean's skin.

Dean goes where Cas guides him, an unattached sort of acknowledgement clinging to his senses, like he's seeing but not really experiencing. He watches suds slide off him in rivulets, swirling around the drain until they're gone, and he lets himself believe they're taking with them the discouragement burning in his chest, pricking at his eyes.

Somehow, he feels lighter.

Castiel reaches for him then, dipping his hand between the two of them and rubbing perfunctorily over Dean's cock, and despite the lack of heat behind the movement, Dean feels a curious sort of arousal curl low in his gut.

“Sorry,” Dean mutters.

Letting out a soft chuckle, Castiel gives him a proper squeeze. “We're almost done,” he tells Dean. “And then I'll take you to bed.”

There's shampoo in Dean's hair now, Cas’s fingers rubbing firm over his scalp, stopping only to pull Dean in by the chin, and slot their lips together again. “Rinse,” Cas whispers against Dean's mouth.

Dean steps under the spray, letting it wash the vestiges of the night away, and when Castiel tugs at him, pushes Dean up against the wall and links their fingers together, sliding their joined hands up until they rest on either side of Dean's head, he's covered in soap, the slippery slide of his body against Dean's, shooting want through Dean's veins.

Castiel leans in, capturing Dean's mouth, and kisses him slowly, sliding his tongue past Dean's lips. Dean's dick twitches.

And then they're out of the shower, smelling like tea tree, and Cas is wrapping Dean up in the biggest towel he has, all white and fluffy and leading him to the bed, prompting Dean to lie down on the sleep rumpled sheets.

When Dean's falling back into the nest of pillows at the head of the bed, Castiel leans over him on all fours, staring down at Dean. "You are enough," Castiel murmurs, pressing a kiss to each of Dean's eyelids, "enough of whatever you need to be."

He pulls his towel off, tossing it over the edge of the bed then reaching to open Dean's. "You can do _anything_ , Dean," he states. " _Anything_."

Dean's brain and chest feel too full, too many conflicting emotions slithering through all the cracks his past has left inside of him. He hasn't been whole in a very long time, and it's never been more glaringly apparent than now when what he wants and what he's capable of feel worlds apart.

"You don't know that," Dean manages quietly, because he can't not. Castiel sounds so sure, so everything Dean doesn't feel, and he wants to be able to believe the words, but the other man's faith in him weighs on Dean like the world on Atlas' shoulders.

"Shhhhh." Castiel bends down, molds their lips together. "Close your eyes. One person, remember?"

Dean swallows hard, wanting to push Cas away while simultaneously clinging to him, his only anchor in the storm, and then allows his eyes to close. His body is tense again, taut as a wire, but Castiel doesn't tell him to relax. Instead he trails feather light fingers along Dean's arms, from his hands, all the way up to his neck. He pushes kisses into the underside of Dean's biceps, sucking a couple bruises on one side and a few more on the other, and then twines his hands through Dean's as he kisses at Dean's face, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead and cheeks.

"Tell me you're brave, Dean," Castiel requests, his lips a hairsbreadth from Dean's.

"I don't feel brave."

"Dean."

Dean feels another tear leak out of the corner of his eye, the lump is back in his throat, and his skin prickles with uncertainty and promise. "I'm brave," he finally manages, his voice cracking over the words, a rocky path he's never trod.

Castiel hums, moving to kiss Dean's chin and pulling away when Dean cants his head so that their lips will slide together. "No," Castiel says gently, "hold still. Tonight, you are mine."

Dean lets his head fall back to the mattress, wondering if it's possible for one's heart to beat clean out of their chest. Then he thinks of Jimmy, and a weighty guilt replaces the flicker of anticipation. How is it that they found one another, he contemplates, two cracked and life-weathered souls careening through seemingly parallel paths until one day they collided and now Dean is here, Castiel atop him, breathing life back into him with every touch.

Castiel lets his fingers run soothing tracks down Dean's frame and works his way down Dean's body dropping kisses to his temple and jaw, his neck and shoulder, leaving in his wake large bruises that are sure to linger for days, reminders of who was there.

"Tell me you are strong," Castiel requests, rubbing his hands over Dean's chest, pressing kisses along his collarbone and tracing Dean's sternum with his tongue.

"I'm strong," Dean breathes, and maybe he can't believe it yet, not fully, but the words sink beneath the surface nonetheless, there for when Dean needs them.

Cas kisses from Dean's sternum to a nipple and – after dropping a kiss to Dean's chest – he takes it into his mouth and sucks until the nub is hard. Dean gasps and his back arches off the bed as Castiel bites down gently, the thread of arousal curling through him growing until he's fully hard beneath Cas.

The fire in his mind dims.

Castiel resumes his descent down Dean's body, kissing a trail down the center of his belly, flicking his tongue into Dean's belly button and then taking a few moments to suck dark, satisfyingly noticeable bruises into the softness of Dean's midsection. He runs his fingers along Dean's ribs, drawing Dean's attention to the way they expand and contrast so heavily under Castiel's grasp and wondering how it is Castiel's managing to take him apart piece by piece without making him feel undone.

Castiel moves himself lower, pushing Dean's legs apart and settling himself between them. Dean is hard, his cock thick and heavy, curling against his belly, pre-come beading at the tip. Castiel grabs for the lube, coating his fingers and reaching up underneath himself to work in the first finger.

Dean's eyes zero in on where that finger disappears inside of Cas, and he bites at his lip.

Castiel extends his free hand, placing it on Dean's thigh and rubbing circles into Dean's skin with his thumb while he maneuvers his finger in and out of himself until he's ready for a second.

When he sighs around Dean's name, Dean groans at the sound. "Cas," he moans.

Castiel bends and kisses Dean's thighs, first one, then the other. "You are _good_ , Dean," he murmurs into Dean's skin. "You can help people. You're strong enough to help people. You help me, every single day. And Sam, and the rest of your family. There is goodness in your bones."

Dean swallows, nods as he watches Castiel press another finger into himself, his jaw falling slack as he does so. He works it in and out, and then he's pulling out his fingers, positioning himself above Dean and sliding home.

"Oh," he breathes, " _Dean_."

Dean's eyes fall shut as he takes in the feel of Castiel tight and hot around him. He reaches out – desperate for something to hold on to – and catches one of Castiel's hands with his own. As their fingers slot together, Castiel begins to move.

Castiel brings their lips together, kissing Dean long and slow as he works himself up and down Dean's length. "You're strong enough," he whispers against Dean's neck, rubbing his nose along the soft skin there, and it feels like the fire's been taken out of the house and thrust into Dean's veins, running hot and searing throughout his body.

"Cas," he chokes.

Castiel lets out a groan as Dean hits his prostate, and Dean drags him in for another kiss, needing to touch Cas in every place that he can, their hands held fast, lips moving in tandem, bodies sliding against one another until Dean feels full, so full he fears the words he may not yet be ready to say might come tumbling out of their own accord.

"Dean," Castiel says, stopping Dean from saying anything at all, " _Touch me, please._ "

Dean's mind stutters for a beat before he nods, reaches between them and wraps careful fingers around Castiel's erection, smiling at the gasp his touch elicits from the other man.

The room falls mostly silent, the two of them too wrapped up in one another to form a coherent thought, the words waiting to be said too heavy to offer anyway. _Not yet_ , Dean tells himself, _not yet._

When the only thing on Dean's mind is release, all his senses honed in on that aching, pressing feeling of orgasm building in his gut, Castiel wraps a hand around Dean's where it's still sliding along his cock and squeezes, drawing Dean's hand to move faster, harder.

"Close," Dean pants, "baby, 'm so close."

"Look at me when you come, Dean," Castiel requests, "open your eyes. I want to see you."

Dean peels his eyes open, heated green coming to meet hazed blue, and just as their gazes meet, Dean’s body coils up tight, spilling his release inside Castiel, breathing hard, relief and pleasure washing over him in a heavy wave.  "So good, Cas," he mutters, "so good."

Castiel lets out a cry and comes all over their hands and Dean's belly, bending to kiss Dean frantically as he shudders through his release. "Dean," he says, cupping Dean's face with his free hand. "You're strong enough," he says one last time, thumb rubbing idly across Dean's cheekbone.

Dean gazes up at Castiel, drinking in the softness of his touch, the gentle conviction of his words. They prickle just behind his breastbone, and Dean thinks maybe if Cas keeps saying it, someday he'll be able to believe it.

"Okay," he whispers.

Castiel smiles down at him, his lips barely tugging upwards, but it's enough; Dean knows he's done the right thing. "Okay," Castiel repeats. He drapes himself over Dean, their chests pressing together again, skin heated and damp with sweat, and Dean wraps his arms around Castiel's back, tipping his chin as Castiel nuzzles at his jaw.

Words press at his brain, a gentle prod that's difficult to ignore, but Dean keeps them trapped, hidden away for another day. But as he drifts to sleep, those three little words whirl in his brain _._

**:::**

December passes in a blur. Between working at the shop with Bobby, volunteering at the station, and spending time with Sam and Castiel, Dean easily finds himself worn out, falling asleep on Cas’s couch more often than not with a beer in his hand and his uniform still on.

Castiel always wakes him though, stripping Dean out of his clothes and tucking him into bed beside him like it’s right where Dean belongs.

No call has been as hard as his first one, but sometimes the reminder is too prominent to shake. When that happens, Dean's able to remind himself that there are people that believe in him, and if in his whole career he only helps one person, it was all worth it. For the days it isn't, Castiel is there, ready to give Dean whatever he needs, and most nights it's enough.

By mid-December Dean realizes Christmas is fast approaching. He hasn't given it a lick of attention until now, and while the holiday is usually celebrated at Bobby's, Dean's still got shopping to do and cooking to plan.

He's seated at the breakfast bar in Cas’s apartment, watching the other man bustle about the kitchen when the thought first occurs to him that he and Castiel haven't spoken about Christmas either. Dean had just assumed Cas would be spending it with him, but he figures he should at least talk to the guy about it.

"So, Christmas," Dean says, tapping at the edge of his beer.

"Yes." Castiel doesn't look up from where he's mixing batter in a bowl, but Dean assumes he's listening.

"You got any plans?"

Castiel dips a finger in the bowl, brings it to his mouth and sucks the batter off, contemplating. Dean licks his lips as he watches. "My mother has invited me for Christmas," he answers quietly.

“You talked to her?” Dean asks, bottle halfway to his mouth, brows raised.

“On Thanksgiving,” Castiel explains, turning his back to Dean and adding a pinch of brown sugar to his concoction. “I told her I'd think about it. I do miss her.” His voice is careful, like he's not even sure he wants to admit the words to himself, let alone anyone else.

“You should go,” Dean inputs because he doesn't want Castiel to be gone for Christmas, but it's the right thing to say.

Cas is pouring his batter into a pan now, and when he's finished, he hands two dripping beaters to Dean. “I'll think about it,” Castiel tells him. Dean wonders if he's supposed to translate that into a “no.”

“What do you want for Christmas?” Dean questions, draining the last of his beer and wrapping his tongue around the prongs of one of the beaters. “Lemon?” he asks as the tart flavor bursts across his tongue.

Castiel nods. His pan is in the oven now, and he's tossing dishes into the sink, running them under hot water.

“I want you to stop leaving your shoes in the middle of the floor when you come home late,” he snarks, shaking his hands dry and shooting a smile at Dean.

Dean offers him one right back, sucking more batter into his mouth. “I only do that because I know how much you like picking up after me,” he quips.

“Yes, well,” Castiel says, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed over his chest. “Don't be surprised when one of these days I pick up after you right out the window.”

Dean slides out of his chair, closing in on Castiel until his hands are on either side of the other man, settling on the countertop. “Why don't you say that to my face,” Dean says, voice pitched low.

Castiel reaches for Dean, hands pulling him in by the ears, and slotting their mouths together hard enough to shut Dean up for a good while.

**:::**

“So, what gives, Cas. Are you going home for Christmas or not?” Ruby's seated across from him at a diner, and she's shoveling fries into her mouth like it's her last day on earth. Sam and Dean were supposed to meet them nearly ten minutes ago, and it's strange to think there was a point in Castiel's life when he didn't crave Dean's warmth at his side or the surety of his hand wrapped around Cas’s because right now it's all he wants.

Castiel sips at his water. “Naomi's house is not home. And I'm still thinking about it,” he explains, voice mild.

“You've been _thinking about it_ for almost a month. Don't you think she deserves to know?”

“Since when did you become an advocate for my mother?” Castiel questions, skin prickling. He doesn't have a good reason not to go, other than he doesn't want to. But seeing Dean's close-knit family has made Castiel long for something like that of his own. His heart still aches when he thinks about Naomi, and Michael, and Jimmy, and how, even for a short time, they were a family, too.

Ruby huffs at Castiel, dipping another fry into the ketchup on her plate. “I'm not advocating for your mother, Cas, I'm advocating for myself. You think I wanna endure that shit show on my own? The Novak's aren't in it for the holiday, they’re in it for the show, and I don’t want any part in that.”

“And yet, you fit right in with their conniving, guilt tripping, manipulative ways,” Castiel offers, grinning around his straw.

Ruby tosses a French fry across the table at him and misses horribly. “And you're an _angel_ ,” she grouses, shooting him a dark look.

“Jimmy was the angel,” Castiel counters.

Ruby stills across from him, expression flaccid, and there's a beat of silence before she responds.

“Naomi thought so,” she says, reaching for the ketchup on her right, squirting a generous amount onto her plate.

“I bet she feels like an idiot naming _me_ after an angel.”

“Maybe she was trying to be ironic.”

“Nothing about my mother is ironic,” Castiel says.

At that moment the overhead bell chimes behind them, and then Sam and Dean are there, bickering as they approach the table, Sam shaking his head and Dean grinning at himself victoriously.

“Hey,” Dean says, sliding into the booth next to Castiel and leaning in to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

Castiel can't help the smile that grows on his face. And even if he could, he'd do nothing about it. He can't remember the last person who made him feel like smiling just because. Jimmy, probably. “Hello.”

Dean drapes an arm over the back of the booth, and Castiel moves a hand to curve around Dean's thigh. It was only roughly eight hours ago Dean had kissed Castiel goodbye and left for a shift at the garage, but it feels like it's been ages.

“What're we talking about?” Dean asks, looking between Castiel and Ruby for an answer.

“If you would've been here on time you'd know.” Ruby shoots Dean a _look_ , her voice mocking.

“Ruby's pestering me about Christmas,” Castiel supplies.

Dean reaches for Castiel's water, taking a few swallows before sliding it back to him.

“Heaven forbid you wait for your own,” Castiel mutters.

Dean's smile is saccharine, and Castiel wants to kiss it right off his stupid fucking face. “Sharing is caring, Edlund,” Dean says.

“So is respecting boundaries, Winchester.”

Dean leans in, brushes his lips against Castiel's temple. “You're cute when you're pissy,” he mutters, reaching for Cas’s water again. Castiel reaches for the water, too, grabbing it just before Dean does and draining the glass before Dean can stop him.

“I was suddenly very thirsty,” he offers, voice all cheek and no remorse.

There's a smile hiding in Dean's eyes when he retorts, “You were suddenly a dick.”

Their waitress approaches their table then, red hair pulled into a neat bun on top of her head, her pale blue gingham dress cheery and welcoming. She introduces herself as Ginger and makes her way around the table, taking orders and answering questions.

“And for you, sweetie?” she asks, glancing up from her notepad to look at Castiel. Dean pulls Cas’s menu from his hands and offers them both to Ginger.

“Don't waste your time, sweetheart,” he tells the woman. “He's just going to steal whatever's on my plate anyway.”

Ginger nods, flashing a smile at them and leaving to refill coffee for guests at the bar.

Ruby's scraping the last of her fries across the dredges of ketchup on her plate, tossing it all into her mouth and sucking the remaining salt and condiment off her fingers. “You know, as adorable as you two are, I'd like to get through this dinner without puking my guts out, so if you could save the couple-y, doe-eyed disgustingness for later, that'd be much appreciated.”

“Hear that, baby?” Dean asks, grinning like the devil at Castiel. “She thinks we're adorable.”

Castiel draws Dean in with hands on either side of Dean's face and slots their lips together, making a much bigger display of it than he'd normally allow in public. Across the table from them Sam groans.

“You made it worse,” he grumbles to Ruby.

Ruby pushes her empty plate across the table, wiping her hands off on the yellow cloth napkin draped over her thighs. “Why are we even eating with these two assholes?”

“It was your idea,” Castiel points out.

“Next time remind me what a terrible idea it was the last time.”

“I told you it was a terrible idea _this_ time.”

“Whatever,” Ruby huffs at Castiel, “just keep it in your pants, okay?”

Castiel's answering smirk has Ruby scowling. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“So, Christmas,” Sam intervenes, voice a tad louder than necessary. His brows are raised, looking at each of them, waiting for a response. “I know Ruby's going to Chicago, and I'm working, what about you, Castiel?”

“He's coming to Chicago with me,” Ruby supplies.

Castiel shakes his head. “I haven't decided yet. My mother has asked me to come, but I'm not sure that's wise.”

“C'mon, Cas. You know how your mom gets around Christmas, she wants all her colleagues to think she's Carol fucking Brady, and no one in the family is gonna deny her that because they all want to save face.”

“You'll see then,” Castiel drawls, “why I haven't exactly packed my bags just yet.” He looks over as Ginger sets a plate in front of Dean, fries still steaming, burger leaking juices, and his mouth waters.

Ruby's handed a fresh plate of French fries, Sam some kind of salad or other, and then Castiel is given a new water. “Anything else for you, kids?” Ginger asks.

“We're good,” Sam tells her, “thank you.”

“Or you could go and ruffle some feathers,” Dean suggests, lifting his burger to his mouth and taking a ridiculously large bite that he moans around.

Across the table Sam frowns. “Dude, it's a _burger_.”

Dean, eyes closed in pleasure, shakes his head. “It's a _treasure_.”

“What do you mean, ruffle some feathers?” Castiel questions, reaching for a fry on Dean's plate.

“I mean go and bust outta the box your mom's trying to shove you in. Wear white to the wedding.”

“You could bring Dean with you,” Ruby's smile is wide, the glimmer in her eye something Cas has never wanted to find himself on the receiving end of. “She'd _love_ that.”

And it's not the first time Castiel has considered the option. The idea of having Dean there with him makes the whole thing feel a lot less ominous. “Would you come?” Castiel wonders, watching Dean shove at least five or six fries into his mouth.

“'S much as I love the idea of pissing off mommie dearest, Sammy'll be here, so that's where I'll be, too.”

Castiel nods because it makes sense. But disappointment swirls heavy in his chest.

“You should go, Dean.” Sam counters. “I'm just going to be working the whole time. No reason you should stay behind because of it.”

“It's Christmas, Sam. I'm not leaving you here alone.”

Sam stabs a piece of lettuce with his fork, face all perturbed and harried. “I won't _be_ alone, Dean. I'll have Bobby and Ellen and Jo and everyone else here.”

“Sammy-”

“Please go, Dean.”

Castiel catches Dean's elbows in his grasp, squeezing gently. “It wouldn't hurt to have someone in my corner,” he tells Dean, voice quiet.

Dean blinks down at him, eyes flitting back and forth between Castiel's own. “Okay,” he eventually agrees.

Castiel pulls Dean close, wrapping an arm around his neck and kissing his thanks into Dean's mouth. He's still nervous everything will go ass up at some point over the holiday, but knowing Dean will be there with him through it all makes it seem more bearable.

“Oh man,” Ruby snorts at Dean when Castiel lets him go. “I can't _wait_ to see you in a suit.”


	18. Chapter 18

Castiel figured it'd take a lot more to get Dean into a Nordstrom's Rack let alone a suit. He's fairly certain Dean's never actually seen the inside of a decent clothing store, and it's amusing watching him peruse racks of polos and stacks of jeans like they might jump out and bite him.

“What kind of people actually pay for this kind of shit,” Dean asks, holding up a pair of dress socks with llamas on them.

Castiel takes them from Dean, dropping them into their cart. “I do.”

“Shocker,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. Castiel beams at him.

They wander through the clothing displays – Castiel steering Dean away from the shelf of graphic tees – and wind up in a forest of suits, all hung along the back wall. Dean eyes them with a wary eye.

“Why do I have to wear a suit, again?”

“You don't,” Castiel offers, coming to stand beside him. “You can dye your hair pink and wear footie pajamas for all I care.”

Dean doesn't look at him to respond, just stares at all the wool and polyester stretching before them. “I know,” he says. “But you said everyone dresses up.”

“They do it because they're trying to impress one another. I see no reason for you to feel the need to impress anyone.”

Dean glances at him then, eyes swirling with something Castiel can't quite place. “I do,” he counters.

“What do you mean?” Castiel questions, brows pulled into a furrow.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “I just figured if I was gonna meet your family the way I look might be kind of important to you. I don't want to y'know-” Dean waves a hand in the air, “embarrass you.”

Castiel's frown softens, and he pulls Dean in with arms wrapped around his neck. “What you look like isn't important to me, Winchester. It's who you are that matters.”

“God you're so fucking sappy,” Dean mutters around a smile. He kisses Castiel on the mouth, lingering a moment before pulling away.

“Yes, well,” Castiel says, pressing their lips together a final time, “I try.”

After a moment, and a deep breath, Dean approaches a rack of blazers. Castiel remains by the cart, there to offer assistance or moral support if Dean needs it but otherwise giving Dean full freedom to roam.

“Why are you dressing up?” Dean asks after a moment. He's holding up an ordinary black number that looks more suited for a bodyguard than for someone with Dean's boisterous personality.

Castiel shrugs. “I like to be ironic,” he explains. “Mother thinks that dressing up in a suit and tie will hide who she and I both know I am underneath it all. It's quite a ruse. Black is not your color,” he adds, pulling the suit out of Dean's hands and hanging it back on the rack. (Okay, the plan _was_ to let Dean handle this on his own, but Castiel just can't help himself.)

“I wear black every fucking day.” Dean's pouting now, and it's kind of adorable, which is a ridiculous thing to think about a full-grown man littered with piercings and tattoos and multi-colored hair (blue and red today), but it's also completely fitting for Dean.

Castiel smiles up at Dean with his eyes, delighting in the way Dean's face softens at just the simple act of it. “You do,” he agrees, “and that's fine. But consider this...” He maneuvers Dean towards the back rack, decorated with a few of the more expensive pieces in the store. “ _Navy blue_.”

“You know for a guy who buys his stupid ass sweaters from the thrift store and 'doesn't care if I dye my hair pink and wear footie pajamas,' you sure do have an opinion.”

“I'm merely offering suggestions, Dean. Try on the black if you'd like. Actually, I encourage it.”

Dean frowns, shaking his head and going back to the suit in question. “Dude, you're being really weird.”

“There are plenty of perfectly 'normal people' in the world, Dean. _Weird_ is a compliment.”

“Whatever.”

Dean carries the suit into a deserted dressing room, and Castiel waits, eyeing suits he's determined to get Dean into and scanning a couple of the racks for himself.

When Dean steps out of the dressing room his frown is deep, his shoulders slumped. “I look ridiculous.”

“You don't look like you,” Castiel offers instead, and it's true. The uninteresting black suit may not be Dean's thing, but Castiel's certain they'll find something that is.

After a couple more – something navy for Cas that Dean admits isn't terrible, but he still doesn't feel comfortable in, and something maroon, just to see if it's color Dean needs – Dean finds a grey, tweed, herringbone sport coat that he 'doesn't hate.'

“This looks very nice on you,” Castiel comments, coming to stand behind Dean where he's still scrutinizing himself in the dressing room mirror. He snakes his arms around Dean's waist, hooking his chin over Dean's shoulder, and pressing a kiss against his neck.

Dean has half a mind to flush under the attention. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

After that Dean shops with a little more gusto. He forgoes a typical white button down for a collarless navy one with white electric guitars on it. He refuses slacks, but finds a pair of nice jeans instead – ones without holes in the knees, or frayed hems. In the end he seems satisfied – smile genuine.

“I found you these,” Castiel comments at the checkout stand, holding up a pair of dress socks with cheeseburgers printed on them. Dean's face lights up, and he tugs them out of Cas’s hands, tossing them on the conveyor belt.

When it's all said and done, they've managed to wrack up a few hundred dollars worth of clothing. Dean goes pale when the woman behind the register gives them their total, but Castiel places a hand on Dean's arm.

“My father will take care of this one,” he assures Dean, smile mischievous.

“Since when are you taking money from your dad?” Dean's eyes are deep, boring into Castiel's, and Castiel smiles gently at him, shrugging.

“He's thrown money at me my whole life, Dean. In the Novak family we don’t say I love you, we say here’s $500 to make-up for my lack of parenting. I figured this one could be on him.”

Dean nods, turns back to the register, waiting for Castiel to hand over his card. The way he goes quiet, has a nervous tick growing just behind Castiel's breastbone.

~

Back at Castiel's apartment, Dean is still quiet. He puts something together for dinner and wanders over to the bed, laying himself out on top of the covers, legs dangling off, eyes closed. Castiel follows wearily.

“Dean,” he says, straddling Dean's waist and leaning over him.

“Hmmm?”

Castiel leans in, brushes his lips against Dean's, and requests, “Look at me.”

Dean's eyes flicker open, irises hazy, lids heavy.

“What's wrong?” Castiel asks, thumbing over Dean's bottom lip.

“Nothing.”

“Bull shit, Winchester.” Castiel hedges, “You've been quieter than me since we left the store. That isn't normal. _What's wrong_?”

“Dude, can't you just let me wallow in my own angst for a second? Fuck.” Dean's words come without any fight behind them, and Castiel smiles down at him.

“You rarely allow me the same courtesy, so no.”

Dean sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and Castiel waits. “I feel dirty,” he finally admits, and Castiel frowns. “Spending your dad's money. It's so _Pretty Woman_.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d see it that way.”

“Fuck, man, I dunno,” Dean grumbles. “It’s just when we first met you were adamant about me knowing you weren’t the kind of guy who takes whatever’s on the silver platter your parents hand you, but now-”

Castiel’s heart twists. He _isn’t_ that kind of guy, not usually, and with Dean putting it that way, he feels somewhat dirty, too. “Maybe you should stay home,” Castiel eventually offers because this is not what he wanted: Dean feeling like a kept boy, and Castiel feeling guilty as a result.

Dean frowns, wrapping his hands around Cas's arms. “Why?”

Castiel sighs, rests himself in Dean's lap as Dean sits, one hand holding Cas in place, keeping him from plummeting backwards.

“If you'd feel more comfortable here, then here's where I want you to be. My intention was never to make you feel like any less of a man, Dean; I only used my father's money because I thought it'd help ease the financial burden. For both of us.”

Dean is quiet, eyes trained dutifully on Castiel's chest.

Castiel cups Dean's face in his hands. “You may take back the clothes if you'd like. You may stay here if you'd like. Please just do whatever makes _you_ happy.”

“Being with you makes me happy,” Dean mutters, a hand over Cas's.

The corners of Castiel's mouth tug up as he leans in to fit his mouth over Dean's. “And you said I'm sappy.” He presses Dean back against the mattress, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight with both hands.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, chasing Cas's mouth when he finds it gone.

Castiel leans in again, a glint in his eyes. “You know there's only one way to do that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his hands finding the hem of Castiel's shirt. “Let's get on that.”

~

By the time Sam arrives for dinner, Dean's grinning and Castiel is still loose-limbed from his orgasm.

“I don't even wanna know, do I,” Sam grumbles, stepping through the door. He drops his things by the front door – it must be the Winchester way – and tromps into the living room.

“Know what, Sammy?” Dean asks, pulling dinner out of the oven, and dividing it into three portions.

“Why you two are all-” Sam waves a hand in the air, reaching for Castiel's remote, and frowning when Castiel gets to it first.

Castiel flicks the television on, scrolling through Christmas specials and news channels before settling on _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ and tucking the remote against his side where neither brother can reach it.

“We were just blowing off steam,” Dean offers, grinning wide and cheeky at his brother. He hands Sam a plate, and Sam accepts it with a roll of his eyes.

“I said I didn't want to know.”

Castiel scoots to the very corner of the couch with his plate, allowing Dean enough room to settle between him and Sam, and the room falls quiet for a beat.

“Give me the remote,” Dean requests, his mouth – as always – full of food.

Castiel bats his hand away. “This is a classic.”

“ _Christmas Vacation_ is a classic,” Dean argues. “This is just old.”

Castiel, who has the decency to swallow his food before responding shakes his head. “ _Christmas Vacation_ is obnoxious.”

“Dude, seriously. I'm _not_ watching this.”

“Then eat with your eyes closed. I’m _not_ changing the channel.”

Their attention is drawn to the opposite side of the couch where Sam is groaning, deep and annoyed. “My _god_ you guys are so married. Will you both just shut up and eat?”

“Someone's crabby,” Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth. He shoots Castiel a wink when he looks up from his plate.

“I wasn't aware we were having seafood tonight,” Cas chimes in.

Sam groans again, his plate clattering against the wooden coffee table, and he falls into the cushions behind them. “You suck,” he grumbles. “Both of you.”

 **:::**  

The closer Christmas gets, the more anxious Castiel becomes. He's refused his father's offer of getting he and Dean a nice hotel room – a gesture, no doubt – made simply to piss off Naomi, and Naomi has emailed him a 'formal invitation' complete with the words, _Dinner will be served at six._

 _Maybe we should spend Christmas in Hawaii_ , he types to Dean one night. He hasn't seen Dean all day, Dean taking an early shift at the station and ending the night at the garage, and he feels antsy – even more so than usual – as a result.

**For moving around so much as a kid you'd think I've seen the ocean before. Spoiler alert: I haven't.**

Castiel stares at his screen for a moment, the same thought running through his brain, a train on a circular track; _We should stay home. We should stay home. We should stay home. We should stay home._

After a beat, Dean texts him again. **You okay?**

 _Just worried,_ Castiel responds.

**I'll call you in ten.**

When the phone finally rings it feels like it's been ten years, not ten minutes. “Hello,” Castiel says, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. Despite being underneath a pile of blankets, he feels cold.

“What're you worried about?”

Castiel sighs, shuts his eyes against the dim light of his bedside lamp. “Just being around my family again. I've felt so much better lately, I just don't want-” Castiel stops, swallows. “I don't want them to take that away from me.”

“You don't want to be triggered,” Dean offers, and Castiel's stomach drops. The way people use the word lately, an excuse to get out of something they don't want to do, claiming to be triggered over something they just don't want to see, raises Castiel's hackles.

But Dean is right. He's been so patient with Castiel, and he's learned so much about PTSD, and OCD, and all of the other fucking acronyms that have been used to describe Castiel throughout his lifetime. Not once has he bat an eye when he knows Castiel's having an off day and can't control his compulsions or is exhausted from doing so, and so it feels important to let Dean know how he's really feeling.

“Yes,” Castiel finally responds, feeling tired with the effort.

“I've got an early shift at the station again tomorrow. Let me check on Sam and make sure he's taken care of, and then I'll come spend the night with you, okay?”

Castiel feels guilty agreeing, Dean's worked all day long and is probably worn out himself. But Castiel is selfish, and he wants Dean's arms around him and the warmth of Dean's skin melting into his own. He wants Dean's mouth on his, against his ear, telling him everything is going to be okay. “Alright.”

He counts down the minutes until Dean arrives.

**:::**

Dean can't remember the last time Castiel had a haircut, but it's never been more apparent than it is now with Cas hunched over his suitcase, pulling things out and tossing them on the bed, dark tendrils falling in curls on his forehead and behind his ears.

He probably hasn't shaved in a week or so either.

He's in one of Dean's plaid shirts, the buttons all askew, and probably a pair of Dean's boxers given Cas doesn’t wear boxers, and Dean notes it's been quite some time since he's seen the guy so frenetic like this.

“Hey,” Dean says, stepping through the front door and closing it behind him. “You almost ready?”

“I think so.” Cas's voice is rough, a deep furrow etched between his brows.

Dean approaches Castiel from behind, staring over his shoulder at Castiel's empty suitcase.

“I thought you said you were packed,” Dean comments.

“It wasn't right,” Castiel snaps, and he picks up a shirt off the bed, shaking it out before re-folding it in neat, clean lines more suited for the Gap than being shoved to the bottom of a suitcase. “Just give me a minute.”

Castiel tucks the shirt in the corner of the suitcase, stares at it for a beat before taking it back out, biting his lip and blinking at the now empty spot. “Pants first,” he mutters to himself, reaching across the bed for a pair of jeans.

He shakes those out, too. Folds them, unfolds them, folds them again, then smooths his hand over them before settling them into the suitcase. He does the same thing three more times with three more pairs of pants, then curls his hands into fists, knuckles going bloodless.

“How many times have you done this?” Dean asks, voice held carefully steady. He doesn't want to piss Cas off, but the guy is practically trembling.

Castiel looks up at him then, eyes brimming with tears, and Dean frowns. “Twelve,” Castiel admits. “But it wasn't right, Dean. It was never right.” And he looks so desperate, Dean wants to do whatever he can to take the pain away.

“Okay, hey, it's okay. Can I help you? What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Castiel states, looking away. “I'm almost done.”

“Y'sure? I can get this taken care of while you go shower or something.”

Castiel shakes out the t-shirt he folded not a minute ago, and re-folds it, never making eye contact with Dean, laser focused on the task at hand. “I've already had a shower,” he says, voice clipped.

“Okay,” Dean concedes. He feels about as helpless as Castiel looks right now. But when he's made sure there's more going into the suitcase than coming out of it, he wanders over to the couch, draping himself across the cushions and folding his arms over his chest. He closes his eyes, keeping an ear out for Castiel, and waits.

~

Nearly forty-five minutes have passed by the time they're walking out the door. Dean carries Castiel's suitcase down to the Impala, worrying if he doesn't Cas will upend it and start the whole process over again, and Castiel trails behind him, scratching Meg behind her ears, checking to make sure all the lights and appliances are off, and finally, locking the apartment.

They make it as far as just outside the car before Castiel stops, staring at Dean over the shiny black top of the Impala.

“What's wrong?” Dean asks.

“Do you think I left Meg enough food and water?”

Dean opens the trunk, slides Castiel's suitcase in beside his duffle bag. “Yeah, there's at least five days worth of stuff up there for her and we're only going to be gone for three. And Sam said he'd check in on her, remember?” And he thinks that'll be it, Cas will agree with him, get in the car, and they'll be on their way. But Cas doesn't move.

“I don't want her to go hungry or get dehydrated,” Castiel says, frowning at Dean, deep and intense.

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops himself. This isn't Castiel, this is Castiel's illness. “You want me to go check?” he asks instead.

“I'll do it,” Castiel says, shaking his head.

Dean nods. “I'll go with you,” he offers, coming to stand beside Castiel on the sidewalk.

“You don't have to.”

“I gotta hit the head,” Dean lies. Truthfully, he doesn't want Castiel to get stuck again.

Upstairs Dean leaves Castiel to it, taking a minute in the bathroom before encouraging Castiel to do the same. When Cas walks away, Dean snaps a photo of the cat food and water, and when Cas is finished, they finally make it into the car.

Cas’s seat belt is on, the car is on, and Dean's got a hand on the gear shift, ready to pull away from the curb when Cas places a hand on Dean's arm.

“Wait,” he says.

Dean looks at him, waiting.

“I should double check Meg's food,” Cas says, voice quiet, almost embarrassed.

“You don't have to,” Dean counters, fishing his phone out of his back pocket and pulling up the photo he'd taken. “Took this for you, just in case you forgot.”

He hands the phone over, and Castiel blinks down at the picture, silent.

“Send it to yourself so you can look at it when you need to,” Dean suggests, putting the Impala into gear and maneuvering her out onto the street. When he looks at Castiel again, he's met with the deep, stormy blue of Cas’s eyes.

“Thank you.”

Dean leans over, offering his lips to Cas, and Castiel leans in too, pressing a kiss to Dean's mouth.

“You ready?” Dean wonders.

Castiel shakes his head. “Not really, but I don't think I ever will be.”

“Alrighty then,” Dean says. “Let's hit the road.”

~

They're just barely out of town when Castiel drifts off, laying himself out on the bench seat and resting his head in Dean's lap. Dean let's him sleep, running his fingers through Cas’s hair and keeping the radio on low.

It's been awhile since he's taken the time to drive like this, the nose of the Impala swallowing asphalt as she carries him along the ribbon of highway stretched before him, and it's nice, settling, to be back behind the wheel and out on the open road.

Driving through city and suburbs just ain't the same.

Cas sleeps for about an hour and a half, and then he's blinking awake, sitting up and rolling out his shoulders.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean offers, grin wide.

Cas’s smile is small, but genuine. “Hello.”

“Meant to ask you,” Dean says, watching Castiel lean down and grab Dean's box of cassette tapes off the floor. “Anything I should know before I jump head first into the fray?”

Cas ejects the Asia tape Dean's got in the deck and replaces it with something of his, some band called The War on Drugs, which what the hell kind of name is that?

“What do you mean?” Castiel wonders.

“I mean, is there anything I can't talk about? Anyone I should steer clear of?”

“I'm sure there are about fifty topics you should avoid, especially around mother and father, and you should steer clear of all of them, Dean. They prey on the weak.” When Castiel glances at Dean, there's a glimmer in his eye and seeing him more settled helps ease the worry in Dean's chest a bit.

Dean reaches over, ejects Castiel's tape from the deck. “You saying I'm weak?”

“I'm saying they find everyone weak. If you've got an Achilles heel, they'll find it.” Cas shoves his tape back in, turning up the volume and shooting Dean a warning glance. “Don't touch it again,” he says.

“Dude, you know the rules.”

“I know the rules are stupid, _dude_. What is this, a dictatorship?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean retorts, flashing a wide smile at Cas. “When you get a car of your own, you can make all the stupid rules you want.”

Cas is drumming his fingers on his thighs now, gaze trained out the window at the soggy gathering of trees and weeds, blowing past them in a steady, sort of mesmerizing way. “I don't need a car, Dean,” he counters. “There's perfectly good public transportation where we're from.”

“Yeah, 'public transportation' being me,” Dean snorts.

“I thought you liked it when I ride you,” Castiel offers, gaze still out the window, voice casual.

Dean chokes on nothing and snaps his mouth shut.

~

They’re almost an hour away when Castiel starts to get fidgety again. They've mostly avoided the topic of Cas's family, but it's pretty damn obvious they've never been far from his mind anyway.

He checks his phone every now and then, pulling up the picture of Meg's food and water, and once he seems to be satisfied she's going to be okay, he dumps out Dean's box of cassette tapes and organizes them into alphabetical order, then dumps them out again and decides order of release would be more practical.

By the time they roll into town, the dude's downright crabby, snapping at Dean with one-word answers and otherwise ignoring him. And when Castiel instructs Dean to take a left when the GPS says to go right, Dean's not the least bit surprised when they pull into the parking lot of a bar.

Dean throws the car into park but doesn't otherwise turn it off. Cas's hand is on the door handle, when Dean stops him.

“This isn't home,” Dean points out.

Castiel's eyes flicker with snark. “It's better than home.”

“So, what, your plan is to go in and get smashed before we even step foot through the front door?”

“That's the general idea,” Castiel confirms. “Naomi's used to seeing me drunk, I wouldn't want to disappoint her after all this time.”

Dean shakes his head, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep his retributions at bay. “You wanna tell me what's going on?”

Castiel's hand drops from the door, chest heaving with a heavy sigh. “Not really,” he admits.

Dean goes quiet, waiting. This isn't something they should leave lingering in the air before subjecting themselves to Cas’s family, he just knows it. So, he'll wait until Cas is ready to talk.

“Knowing Jimmy isn't going to be there has my head all fucked up,” Castiel mutters, face craned somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and his shoes. “Last time I was there was right after his funeral, and everything was still sinking in, but now.”

He finally looks up, meets Dean's gaze. “I'm scared.”

“You wanna numb yourself up first,” Dean points out, so much of Castiel's behavior throughout the day making more sense.

Cas nods. “It's always easier to deal with that way.”

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching to rest a hand on Castiel's shoulder. He may be the poster child for repression and denial, but Castiel is helping him through that; Dean should return the favor. “At the risk of sounding like a complete hypocrite, I'm gonna be the bad guy here and tell you I think this is something you should feel your way through.”

“I already feel so broken, Dean. Anything more and I'm afraid I'll shatter.”

“Then I'll follow behind you and pick up the pieces.”

Castiel looks at him for a long time, biting at his bottom lip with eyes so endless, so impenetrable it's unsettling. After a moment Dean unclicks his seatbelt, letting it slide across his chest before moving to get Castiel out of his, too. Cas lets himself be pulled into Dean's arms, deflating against Dean's chest with a weighty exhale.

“You can do this, sweetheart,” Dean assures him. “And I'll be in your corner the whole time.”

Cas shudders a sniffle against Dean's clavicle, and when he pulls away, blinking up at Dean, his features look just a little bit lighter.

“Okay,” Castiel says.

Dean leans in, kisses him. “Okay.”

**:::**

Naomi Novak's home is a large Greek revival number complete with sizable white columns out front and a circular driveway framing the sprawling front lawn.

“ _This_ is your house?” Dean gawks, settling the Impala against the curb and taking in the mansion before him.

“This is it.”

They gather their things from the trunk, stretching stiff muscles and popping creaky joints before ambling up the walkway and to the front door.

Castiel knocks, and it breaks Dean's heart a little. How cold does your mom have to be to not even feel comfortable walking through the front door of your own damn home? And – watching Castiel fidget as he waits – it makes more sense now why Cas is the only one with a key to his apartment. Why everyone, including Dean, has to knock before being permitted inside.

It's what he was taught.

Dean flushes with guilt over being bitter about having to stand on the _Welcome_ mat just like everyone else.

When Naomi finally opens the door, Castiel goes rigid at his side. Dean takes her in shamelessly, sizing up every inch of the woman from her pristine French twist, to the pressed, grey pantsuit hugging her curves. Her eyes are the color of steel, and she wields them with an unwavering sense of authority. They soften only marginally when they land on Castiel.

“Son,” she says, hands held stiff and awkward at her sides, and Dean wishes she'd reach out to Cas, hug him like a mom should.

“Mother.”

Something passes between Cas and Naomi. Something silent and not unkind. An understanding of some sort, an acknowledgment, and it's all over before Dean can even begin to try and figure out what the fuck it means.

But then Naomi's eyes are on him, and Dean squares his shoulders, refusing to buckle under her gaze. “You must be Dean,” she comments, voice tinged with disapproval. Cas did say his mom wasn't a huge fan of his sexuality, especially considering her husband left her for a man, but there's something else there, too. _Effort_.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Naomi nods at him once, and Dean knows that's all he's getting. And he'll take it.

Inside the house is all polished floors and soaring ceilings, a grand staircase greeting them in the cold, hollow entry way and bright hallways winding along its base, echoing their emptiness. The whole getup feels more like a mausoleum than a home.

“You'll be in your old room, Castiel,” Naomi states, leading them down one of the bare hallways, and into a room on the left. “There are towels in the bathroom. Dean you'll be in the room right next door.”

Dean opens his mouth to rebuttal, but Cas is already two steps ahead of him, pulling Dean into the room behind him and responding to his mom over his shoulder. “No need to trouble yourself with an extra set of sheets to clean, Mother. Dean will be staying with me.”

He turns to glare at Naomi from where she hovers in the doorway. “We are here _together_ , and if this is only the first of many quiet jabs reeking of your disavowal, we'll find somewhere else to spend our holiday.”

“My mistake,” Naomi answers tightly.

Another silent exchange between mother and son leaves Dean in the dark, and then Naomi's face is relaxing, and she's smiling at Dean, something waxy that slides right off his shoulders.

“I have a few errands to run before the party tomorrow. You'll be okay here?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Thank you.”

Naomi offers the two of them a curt nod, and then she's gone.

Castiel flops down on the bed, laying on his back with legs dangling off the edge. Dean takes a minute to look around. The walls are a nauseating color of lavender, the curtains draped from ceiling to floor over the one window in the room are a thin, white material that are obviously more for show than keeping out the sun. It reminds Dean of a sterile hospital room.

“So's your mom not a hugger? Or do you just save all of those for me?” Dean wonders, eyeing the water color art hung on the wall above their bed. It's of a generic looking angel, with white fluffy wings and a gold halo on its head.

“Both,” Castiel grates, rubbing his hands over his face.

Dean moves to lean over him, hands on either side of Cas’s head, and Castiel blinking bright blue eyes up at him. “How'd I get so lucky?” Dean wonders, smiling.

“ _You've_ never locked me in a closet for an hour because I rearranged all the books in your library by color.”

Dean frowns. “She did that to you?”

And Cas is smiling, like he's reminiscing on a fond memory. “Jimmy spent the hour slipping comics and notes under the door whenever mother wasn't looking. I wasn't alone, Dean.”

Dean doesn't know what to say. Cas may have had his brother, but it still ain't right to punish a kid for something they can't even control.

“When I was allowed out, mother sent me upstairs to fix what I'd done. Jimmy and I turned all the books so their pages were facing out. That really made her angry.”

“How did Jimmy get away with all the crap you two did?”

Castiel reaches up, cups Dean's face in his hands, despite being upside down from him. “I took all the blame. She would have separated us otherwise. Jimmy always tried to talk me out of it, but I guess it was kind of my way of protecting him.”

Dean thinks about it, nods. He'd done something similar for Sammy, stealing food when they needed it so Sam didn't have to, hustling pool when they needed gas money so Sam didn't have to. And taking the blame for so many of Sam's mistakes so John wouldn't take it out on Sam. Hell, Sammy didn't even know Dad was an alcoholic until he was 10 years old and Dean spilled his guts against John's orders.

“What'dya say we christen these sheets before Mommie Dearest gets home?” Dean asks, leaning in to kiss Castiel on the mouth, his nose bumping Cas’s chin in the process.

“God, _yes_ ,” Cas mumbles into Dean's mouth.

:::

“You're antisocial today,” Ruby muses, waltzing up to Dean with a glass of champagne in hand. She's in a black lacy number, stilettos sharp and dangerous looking, and the rest of the Novak crew is dressed in a similar fashion. Even in his blazer and button-down Dean feels underdressed.

Dean tucks a hand in the pocket of his jeans, glaring. “I'm always antisocial,” he counters. “And there are about ten people in this room I've been told to avoid. Including your dear old dad.”

“He’s not that bad,” Ruby says.

“Whatever, he looks like he could convince someone Hell is a great place for a summer home. And your mom. That lady gives me the chills.” He glances over at Lilith, Ruby's mom and the pinnacle of a trophy wife, her blonde hair falling in soft curls over her pointed shoulders, her smile so plastic it's almost like looking at a goddamn Barbie doll. He'd bet ten bucks Luc paid for that smile.

Ruby rolls her eyes. “You're so dramatic. She's just a woman, Dean. You don't have to make it sound like she snacks on babies.”

“Does she?” Dean asks, flicking a grin in Ruby's direction.

“Ha ha, _Whine_ chester.”

Ruby spins on her heel and waltzes off, and Dean is left feeling naked and vulnerable. So what if Ruby's downright witchy? He hasn't seen Cas in a handful of minutes and at least Ruby's a familiar face.

He wanders over to the hors d'oeuvres table, figuring shoving his face full of food is a hell of a lot better than being accosted by jolly uncle Gabriel again or the stony faced Raphael who's apparently Michael's long time best friend. The guy might not be blood, but he's just as creepy and stiff as the rest of them.

Dean shoves a mini philly cheesesteak burger into his mouth, closing his eyes around a soft moan. It's fucking delicious.

“You must be Dean.” Dean whirls around, nose to nose with a guy who's got dark hair and bright blue eyes just like Castiel's. The resemblance is off-putting, but then there's a glimmer in the man's eyes that Cas lacks and Dean's damn grateful for it. This guy looks like he'd eat Dean alive if given the chance.

“Okay,” Dean says, swallowing and taking a step back. He eyes the man's form, his tailored blue suit sitting snug on his frame, jawline sharp, and Dean inwardly gulps. Despite being attractive, _fuck_ he's attractive, Dean's gut is telling him this is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

The man reaches out a hand, smiling at something only he knows, and Dean feels dirty with the way the guy's looking at him. “I'm Michael, Castiel's father.”

“You're – yeah – okay. Hi,” Dean stammers around the words. Michael smiles at him, like a snake would its prey.

“I'm glad Castiel brought you along. I was afraid this gathering would be just as tedious as all the others.”

Dean frowns, his brows pulling low on his forehead. “I don't-”

“Your suit,” Michael says, ignoring Dean's attempt to speak. “It fits you well. Where did you get it?” And then he leans in, shoulder bumping Dean's chest, cologne heady in Dean's nose as Michael flicks open the collar of Dean's jacket.

“Nordstrom Rack.” Dean's throat is dry, his voice coming out rough and crackled.

Michael steps back into his own space, thank _god_ , and quirks a brow at Dean. “And here I was thinking Castiel had been spoiling you.”

Dean's frown deepens, lips pursed in annoyance. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but if you're implying your _son_ doesn't treat me right, you're way off your mark, buddy.”

Michael chuckles into his glass, downing the last of the liquid therein. “You must be special then,” he says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” And he probably shouldn't be talking to Cas's dad like this, but his blood is boiling, barely contained rage ticking just below his skin. So Michael's powerful, an attorney for all the slimiest politicians and athletes the country has to offer; it doesn't mean the guy deserves Dean's respect just on principle.

Michael shakes his glass at a bartender across the room – yeah, an honest to god bartender cozied up behind a wet bar in Naomi's kitchen – before turning back to Dean, smile cocky and eyes sparking. “You and I must know very different versions of Castiel,” he explains. “You know him as he's led you to believe he is. I know him as he's always been: rebellious, reckless, manipulative. He's sociopathic, Dean. I'm surprised you haven't caught on yet, smart young man like yourself.”

“Or maybe he's grieving,” Dean snaps.

“Grieving,” Michael repeats, tone flat.

“Yeah, you asshat. _Grieving_ . Grieving the lack of a father figure in his life, grieving a childhood he was robbed of because his mom's got a stick so far up her ass she could never see how much he was suffering, grieving the one person who was ever on his side until he _died_. Grieving. And scared, and lonely. Guy didn't exactly have a storybook life growing up, but you wouldn't know anything about that would you?”

Michael steps in close again, eyes hard, mouth even harder. “I like you,” he purrs. “You've got spunk.”

Dean holds his breath, leaning away from the man as he sways closer.

“Trying to trade Inias in for a newer model, father?” Castiel appears at Dean's side, his features pointed and dark.

Michael's eyes flick to his son, and he smiles at him, all lips and no teeth. “Of course not, Castiel. We're merely having a friendly conversation.”

“My apologies,” Castiel grates, “from where I was standing it looked eerily like you were eye-fucking my boyfriend.”

Michael's smile melts, and he steps away from Dean and towards Castiel instead. “Apology accepted,” he says all syrupy and low. He nods once at his son and winks at Dean before making for the bar where his drink is waiting for him.

“I'm sorry,” Cas says, turning to pull Dean in by the lapels of his jacket. “Are you okay?”

“M'fine. Just need a two-day shower now s'all.”

Cas quirks a smile at Dean, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his lips. “Why don't we get you a drink?” he mutters.

Dean pulls Cas in once more, kissing him again. “Twisted my arm.”

~

The rest of the evening is equally as painful as it began. Dean has a run-in with the man Naomi's seeing, a stout, smug brain surgeon called Crowley who talks like he's the wittiest man to have ever walked the planet, and then he's sat across from Jessica Rabbit at the dinner table.

Her green eyes meet his over the spread of food, and she grins at him with wide red lips and pearly white teeth; Dean can't tear his eyes away.

“She's preying,” Cas mutters at Dean, smile fond.

Dean blinks at Castiel, like he's coming out of a trance. The beautiful redhead is still visible out of the corner of his eye, but the vibes she's giving off are anything but beautiful.

“Abby,” Castiel explains. “She's feeling you out. Most likely looking for that Achilles’ heel I told you about.”

“Dude, your family is creepy.”

Cas rests a hand on Dean's knee. “I told you.”

Dean looks back over, the redhead – Abby – sitting on Luc's right, and Ruby's left. “She's Ruby's _sister_?”

“Half-sister,” Cas intones. “The rumor has it that Abby and Anna share the same mother, but no one's really made an effort to prove it.”

Dean's frowning now, his head spinning. He glances at Anna, eyes sunken and dark, and back at Abby, and it's like he's stepped foot inside a real live soap opera. “Wait, that would mean-”

“That the woman Luc was sleeping with cheated on him with Gabriel? Yes, it's all very twisted, I know. Apparently, I have a half-sister myself. I had a nanny when I was younger, Hannah, she wasn't all that much older than Jimmy and me. But it was mentioned that she was my father's child, and that Naomi hired her as our nanny as a sort of payback for Michael having cheated on her.”

Dean shakes his head, reaching for the meager helping of champagne in front of him. There's no way it'll even touch him, but he'll take anything alcoholic at the moment. “God, how did you survive as a kid?”

“Like my father said,” Cas quips, smirking. “I'm a sociopath.”

“You _heard_ that?”

Cas shrugs. “He's said worse, Dean.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. The sooner he and Cas put the The Ewings in their rear-view mirror, the better.

It isn't until later they're finally able to sneak off to their room. Cas's family is still silently tearing each other's throats out with their eyes, but Dean's had about all he can take. And Cas is getting crabby, too. So, Dean steals him away, guides Cas to their bedroom and shuts and locks the door.

“Dude, you have got to be some kind of fucking _saint_ for withstanding that for twenty something years.” He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a sturdy wooden hanger and then goes for the buttons on his shirt.

Cas reaches out, his fingers helping Dean's along until his shirt hangs open. “I'm no saint, Dean. Obviously. I just found comfort in alcohol and weed and sometimes prescription drugs and stumbled my way through life, always leaning on Jimmy to see us through to the end.” His hands rove over Dean's chest, and Dean studies him for a beat.

“How you holding up by the way?” Dean questions.

Cas shrugs, looking up at Dean through the dark frame of his lashes. “I'll be okay.”

“You need a blanket fort?”

“No,” Cas answers, smiling gently. “Just you.”

They forego pajamas for the night – at Castiel's request – and Cas climbs underneath the covers, pulling Dean on top of him and drawing him in for a kiss.

“I have something for you,” Castiel mutters, cupping Dean's face in his hands and pressing kisses to Dean's eyelids, his forehead, and chin.

Dean settles back on his haunches, peering down at Cas, at his beautiful sun-kissed chest and toned shoulders. “What, like your dick?” Dean snarks. He can feel Castiel half hard beneath him.

Castiel rolls his eyes, reaches over to the bedside table where the only light in the room is spilling out from beneath the lampshade in a muted yellow glow.  “No,” he grumbles. “I have a _present_ for you. A Christmas present. Don't ruin the moment with your petty one-liners.”

“They're not petty, they're genius,” Dean quips back.

“Regardless, they have no place here right now. Just let me be sentimental for sixty fucking seconds, Winchester.”

Dean lets out a chuckle, bends to kiss Cas again. “Okay,” he complies.

Cas is holding a plain white envelope now, peeling back the tab to pull out a silver chain, something dangling at the bottom. He hooks a hand around Dean's neck and pulls him in, looping the chain over Dean's head and letting it settle around his neck. When Dean looks down, he blinks, confused. Because it can't be what he thinks it is, right? Because that would mean- 

“It's to my apartment,” Castiel explains, holding up the key for Dean to observe.

“No more knocking?” Dean wonders, eyes glued to the key and throat closing around a lump he can't quite seem to swallow.

“No,” Castiel says quietly. “Never again. My home is your home.”

Dean's eyes burn with tears, and he leans in, closes his mouth over Cas's. “I love you,” he breathes, and he feels warm all over. Because Castiel doesn't hesitate, doesn't recoil or shy away. He pulls Dean in, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him, and his hands are everywhere, on Dean's thighs, his ribs, his shoulders.

“Dean,” Castiel pants, and Dean moves to Cas's neck, sucking and biting, spurred on by Castiel's fingers on the waistband of his underwear, the jagged edge to his breathing when Dean hits the right spot.

Cas has both their dicks out in record timing, and Dean settles against him until they're sliding together nice and tight. Castiel's fingers scratch their way down Dean's back, lower, lower, lower, until he's skimming over Dean's hole with a whisper of a touch.

Dean sucks in a breath of air, moves more fervently against Cas, kissing him again and again until Castiel's practically gasping for air.

They've had sex before, a shitton of it, but this is different. It _feels_ different. This isn't angry, or sad sex, and it isn't vengeful sex, or desperate sex. It's not exploratory, or healing sex. It's hearts open wide, spilling into each other, filling in each other's cracks with pieces of themselves, pieces they give willingly and wholly. It's Dean holding on tight so none of Cas's parts rattle loose, and Castiel laying himself bare for Dean, letting him in, accepting him as a permanent fixture in his life.

It's unity. And it's the best fucking thing Dean's ever felt in his life.

Dean comes all over the both of them, breathing hot against Cas’s neck, smiling like an idiot. An idiot in love. Tucking his face into the crook of Cas’s neck, he reaches down to stroke Castiel until he's coming with Dean's name on his lips.

As they lay side by side, bodies cooling in the dark, fingers tangled together, Dean peers up at the ceiling, heart still thudding in his chest. “Hey, baby?”

“Mmmmm?”

“The key was that- are you-” Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Are you asking me to move in with you? Or just letting me know I’m welcome.”

“You’ve been welcome for some time,” Castiel points out, his voice quiet next to Dean.

Dean turns his head, blinks at Cas until his eyes adjust. “So you were asking me to move in with you?”

Castiel chews on his lip, and it sets Dean’s nerves on edge. “Do you want to move in?”

“It _is_ closer to the fire station.”

“Asshole.” Castiel smiles, swats at Dean’s shoulder. Dean leans in and drops a soft kiss to Castiel’s nose before pulling away.

“I guess that’s kinda the next step in the relationship department though, right?” Dean points out, more serious this time.

Castiel squeezes Dean’s fingers between his own, the gesture comforting to the uncertainty rolling through Dean’s body. “Yes, but only when we’re ready to take that step.”

“Are you ready to take that step?”

There’s no hesitation when Castiel affirms, “ _Yes_ ,” and something inside Dean breaks, letting all his feelings flow in and swirl around in his chest like a warm, happy wave.

“Me, too,” he mutters around a grin, pulling Castiel in close, because he is ready, probably has been ready for a while now.

Castiel burrows in against Dean’s chest, brushing his lips against Dean’s bare skin, and though it’s a while before the happy humming in Dean’s brain quiets, when he finally does fall asleep, it’s to dreams of some point in his near future when he’ll be waking up with Castiel next to him every single day.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: very light D/s & bondage

“Hey, before we leave, you wanna open your Christmas present?” Dean's bent at the knees, pulling a gift out of his duffle bag. It's wrapped in the funnies from the newspaper and lacks a bow or any sort of festivity, but it's so very Dean that it makes Cas smile.  
  
“If you'd like me to.”  
  
With present in hand, Dean sits next to Castiel on the bed, holding it out for him to take. “It is Christmas, so.”  
  
Castiel nods, accepting the gift and turning it over in his hands until he finds the bottom. As the paper falls away Castiel beams at Dean, almost laughs. “A label maker,” he says. “It's perfect.”  
  
“Just thought it'd be good for when you want to y'know organize and stuff.”  
  
“Thank you,” Castiel says, leaning in to kiss Dean. “It's wonderful.”  
  
Dean smiles, presses his lips to Castiel's cheek. “Glad you like it, sweetheart.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Should we hit the road?” Dean asks, poking Castiel in the ribs, making him jump. But when Castiel scowls at him, Dean merely chuckles. “Couldn't help myself.”  
  
“I'm sure you couldn't.”  
  
On their way to the Impala, Dean tosses Castiel the keys.  
  
“You're actually trusting me with your Baby?” Cas wonders in mock awe.  
  
“Should I not?” Dean asks, leading the way towards the trunk and waiting for Castiel to open it.  
  
With their bags tucked away Castiel wanders over to the driver's side door, peering through the window at the steering wheel. If there's one thing he knows about Dean, it's how much he loves this goddamn car. Even Sam's only been offered the privilege of driving a handful of times since Dean's owned her. And now he's trusting Cas to get behind the wheel. It may be a small gesture, but it speaks volumes of Dean. And how he feels about Castiel.  
  
With a grin Castiel finally climbs inside, settling into the driver's seat and carefully pushing the key into the ignition. Traveling Riverside Blues blares from the speakers, and Castiel hits the power button on the stereo.  
  
“Give me the tapes,” he says, when Dean has joined him in the car.  
  
Dean blinks down at the box of tapes at his feet. “No.”  
  
“Dean, you know the rules.”  
  
“I said you could drive, Cas, not take over.” Dean's staring at him now from across the cab, and his eyes are so wide, so green. “‘Sides, when the fuck do you ever respect the rules?”  
  
Castiel reaches for the box himself. “You said so yourself this is a dictatorship. I am now in the driver's seat. So, I?”  
  
“Pick the music,” Dean says through gritted teeth.  
  
Castiel smiles at him overly sweet, practically dripping with sarcasm. “And you?”  
  
“Shut my cake hole.”  
  
Castiel meets Dean's eyes, pitching his voice low. “Good boy,” he rumbles, smirking at the flush that climbs Dean's neck and settles high in his cheeks. “Praise kink, huh?” he states, more to himself than anything.  
  
“Can we just go?” Dean snaps, reaching for the box and shoving it at Castiel. Castiel shuffles through the cassettes until he finds The National and hands the box back to Dean as he pushes his tape into the deck.  
  
And then they're on their way.  
  
As they head out of town, Dean calls Sam to wish him a merry Christmas. Castiel feels warm sitting next to Dean, Dean's voice filling in the spaces the music does not; being here with him was far less of a chore than Castiel anticipated it to be.  
  
They're nearing the freeway when Dean asks Castiel to pull off down a lesser used street, nothing but storage units and grungy business surrounding them.  
  
“Okay, Sammy I gotta go. Yeah, merry Christmas to you, too, Moose.”  
  
“Dean, what are we doing?” Castiel questions after Dean's hung up the phone.  
  
Dean glances at him, smile soft, expression almost... nervous. “Just needed to make a quick stop if that's okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Castiel relents frowning. He knows this area, this is where-  
  
“Pull in here,” Dean directs, motioning out the window towards a line of storage units, and after that Dean doesn't need to tell him where to go, Castiel already knows the way. He rolls past units, orange doors dirty and well used, and doesn't stop until they pull up to number 504. It's the unit all his things are in, the one he grabbed last minute before skipping town with Ruby.  
  
“What are we doing here?”  
  
Dean unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to look at Castiel. “Did you really think all I got you was a label maker?”  
  
And Castiel is still trying to figure everything out, still combing through his mind for any details he may have missed that would've led him here. “All I got you was a key,” Castiel points out.  
  
“This ain't just a key, Cas,” Dean states, pulling on the chain still hung around his neck until the key appears from beneath his shirt. “It's everything.”  
  
“But why are we here?”  
  
At this Dean pulls another key out of his pocket, bulky and brass, worn. “I knew I was taking a risk bringing you here without asking first, but I took it anyway.”  
  
“I don't know, Dean,” Castiel mutters, staring out the windshield at number 504. It's been two years since he locked this part of himself away, and he's not sure he's ready to revisit it.  
  
Dean reaches for Castiel's hand, drops the key into his palm, and curls Castiel's fingers around it. “It's your call,” Dean explains. “If you don't want to take a peek, we can hit the road right now. But if you want to pack some stuff up, I'm happy to help.”  
  
Castiel stares at the storage unit for a beat, fingers of his empty hand curled tightly around the steering wheel. He's not ready. But he might never be ready. “Okay.”  
  
They climb out of the car. Dean approaches the unit in a casual manner, waiting for Castiel with hands in his pockets. Castiel joins him, bends to put the key in the lock, and turns.  
  
Inside, boxes are stacked haphazardly, some piles reaching for the sky, others with only one or two boxes to complete them. Castiel eyes it all wearily, hands curled into fists at his sides.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, pulling Castiel against his chest, tucking Cas's head in the crook of his neck. “Remember if you wanna get out of here, just say the word.” Castiel nods against Dean's cool skin.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
A beat passes, and another, and one more until Castiel forces himself forward and towards the closest pile of boxes. “This might take a while,” he points out, looking up at the topmost box. It's marked Jimmy.  
  
“We've got all the time you need.”  
  
Nodding, Castiel pulls down the first box and peels off the tape, blinking down at the contents with eyes blurry. It's Jimmy's cross-country uniform and several of the medals he won throughout high school and college. Castiel pulls out his brother's jersey, brings they gray fabric to his nose and buries his face in it. It doesn't smell like Jimmy anymore, that scent having faded long ago, but it still _feels_ like Jimmy and Castiel's chest burns with the weight of it.  
  
“You want me to buzz off while you do this?” Dean wonders.  
  
“No,” Castiel mutters without turning. “Please stay.”  
  
Dean nods and comes to stand next to Castiel. “Okay.”  
  
“He was fast,” Castiel says quietly, eyes focusing in on the navy NSU logo emblazoned across the chest. “He was training for his first NCAA.”  
  
Castiel doesn't intend for Dean to respond, and he doesn't, his presence offering Castiel all the support he needs at the moment.  
  
Draping the jersey across the open box, Castiel digs around inside, pulling out a photo album of the photos he'd taken of Jimmy over the years. “I never missed a competition,” he says, thumbing through the pages briefly before handing it to Dean. He's only just glimpsed inside, but he already feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest.  
  
He looks over at Dean, where Dean's staring down at the album. “You can look.”  
  
“You sure?” Dean questions, looking up.  
  
Castiel nods, turning back to the boxes. “I'm going to keep going.”  
  
Slowly Castiel makes his way through the boxes, some things he tosses immediately, old pieces of himself he no longer needs or wants, but when it comes to Jimmy's things he just can't bring himself to get rid of them.  
  
Dean's started going through boxes too, holding up this or that for Castiel to observe, and with every new box opened, Castiel feels heavier, and heavier, and heavier. But it's good, it's cleansing. He's feeling it, goddammit, and it hurts, and most of the time he feels like he can't breathe, but there's also a lightness to it all. Like this is exactly what Jimmy would want him to do. Feel it, digest it, and heal.  
  
“Dude, you have got to be kidding me.” Dean's flicking through a photo album, and Castiel doesn't even have to see the pictures to know what he's talking about.  
  
“I see you've found some of my more private photography experiments.” He moves to stand next to Dean, risking a glance at the photo Dean's eyes are glued to, and smirks.  
  
Dean holds the album up, cheeks flushed. “We are so bringing this home. But I gotta ask, Cas. Why?”  
  
Castiel reaches for the album, opens it again. “Some of my professors gave me such boring assignments,” he comments, looking down at the pictures with a critical eye. “One of them wanted us to capture a moment of 'true pleasure.' So, I handed in these.”  
  
“You gave your professor pictures of yourself masturbating?”  
  
“They're very tasteful, Dean.” A Cheshire grin grows on Castiel's face as he watches Dean look at them again. “You certainly think so, anyway.”  
  
Dean flails, slamming the photo album shut. “I'm not- I don't- I was just-” he sputters.  
  
Castiel chuckles. “They can come home with us, and you can ‘not, don't, just’ all you'd like,” he relents.  
  
“So, did you get an A?” Dean asks, grinning wide and cheeky. He's still blushing, but the color looks so pretty on him and there's nothing Castiel loves more than seeing Dean worked up and frustrated. Whether it's sexually, or mentally – because Cas is doing his damndest to put him through the wringer – it's all the same brand of beautiful to Castiel.  
  
“I got removed from the course and put on a two week probation.”  
  
Dean tucks an arm around Cas's neck dragging him closer and pressing his lips against Cas's temple. “Some people just don't appreciate the novelty of true art, babe.”  
  
“You're right,” Castiel agrees, “some don't.”

~

When everything's loaded into the Impala, and the two of them are peering inside at the mostly bare storage unit, Castiel feels settled. Picking and choosing the parts of him and the parts of Jimmy he wanted to keep, remember, live put so much of the past two years into perspective.  
  
And it still hurts to think about him, and there's a part of Cas that will probably always be bitter, but for now those parts of him are all just pieces to the balance he's still learning to obtain.  
  
“That everything?” Dean wonders, pulling out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from his back pocket and lighting one up. Cas eyes the box, smiles to himself. “What are you smilin' at?”  
  
“I just thought you were all about Lucky Strikes.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “A cigarette is a cigarette. 'Sides, you're just gonna steal 'em anyway, so I figured I might as well get something you like. I don't see the appeal, but whatever.”  
  
Castiel tugs the cigarette out of Dean's fingers, taking a puff and blowing the smoke out in a slow stream that dissipates in the cold air. He quirks a smile at Dean's glare. “They're natural and organic.”  
  
“Dude, they're cigarettes. They're still gonna kill you eventually.”  
  
“At least I'll have done my part to support the local tobacco farmers of America,” Castiel quips back, smiling at Dean with no teeth.  
  
Dean mutters something under his breath, then looks back to the storage unit, a beat of silence passing between them. “What're you going to do with the rest of it?”  
  
Castiel takes in the remaining boxes, finds closure in what he's left behind. “I'm going to give it to my mother.” Naomi and Castiel may never have seen eye to eye, but she loved Jimmy immensely; he may not like it, but it feels like the right thing to do.  
  
“Back to Margaret White's place then?”  
  
“No. I'll mail her the key.”  
  
Dean exhales, shoulders loosening. “Thank god.”  
  
“It appears my family left a lasting impression on you,” Castiel chuckles, pulling down the metal door of his unit and locking it up. Dean meanders over to the passenger's side door.  
  
“Dude, your shit childhood puts my shit childhood to shame. My dad may have been a drunk, but your dad is just-”  
  
“Sleazy?” Castiel settles into the driver's seat, easing the key into the ignition and firing up the engine.  
  
Dean clicks his seatbelt into place, glances at Castiel. “And then some.”  
  
“My family is awful,” Castiel agrees, “but it doesn't lessen what you experienced as a child, Dean. It wasn't worse, just different.”  
  
“Here's to deadbeat dads then, eh?” Dean's brandishing another cigarette, Castiel having confiscated the first one, and he bumps it against the one between Cas's fingers.  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes, taking a puff anyway, before easing the Impala back out of the lot. “Home?” he asks, idling just past the large chain-link fence outside the storage units.  
  
Dean pauses, flicks some of the ash off his cigarette, watching it catch on the wind and blow away. “Actually, this whole working-through-crap thing you've been doing kinda has me thinking.” He stares at the dash, takes another pull from his cigarette. “How'd you feel about a detour?”  
  
“I'm listening.”  
  
“I've been thinking about my parents a lot lately, and-” Dean stops, takes a steeling breath. “Earlier in the year Sam went and visited their graves, and I didn't go with him, fought with him about it, actually. But I kinda regret not going. I know it's just two piles of dirt and some stone, but they’re my parents, y'know?”  
  
“Alright,” Castiel says, curling his fingers around the steering wheel, knowing all too well that feeling that's curling in Dean's gut. Wanting to move on, but too afraid to let go. “So, Kansas?”  
  
Dean nods, face going pale. “Uh, yeah. Guess so.”  
  
“You know what that calls for then?” Castiel asks, reaching for the box of cassette tapes at Dean's feet.  
  
Dean groans, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Oh god, what?”  
  
Castiel smiles at him, slides a tape in the deck, and turns it up. When “Carry on My Wayward Son” blares from the speakers, Dean gawks at him, eyes wide. “Who are you, and what've you done with Cas?”  
  
“I can change it,” Castiel replies with a shrug, but Dean grabs Cas's hand when he reaches for the eject button.  
  
“Don't you fucking dare, Edlund. You- drive. I'll sit back and enjoy the ride.”  
  
Castiel looks over, pleased at the ease of Dean's smile, the lack of tension in his shoulders. “Thought so,” he says, and then they're on their way.

**:::**

 

It's an eight-hour drive into Lawrence. When they pull in, Dean directs Castiel to a diner downtown, and now that they're idling in the parking lot, Castiel glances up at the sign, shifting the car into park and turning her off.  
  
“Homemade Moseley,” Castiel mutters, taking in the white brick and yellow trim around the building.  
  
“Sam and I kinda grew up here. When we weren't with Bobby or on the road with Dad, we were with Missouri.”  
  
Castiel follows him out of the Impala, and to the door where a bell chimes over their head when they enter. Inside there's black and white squares going around the whole joint and old tiled floors beneath them. But despite the building's age, it's in immaculate shape, floors neatly scrubbed and countertops shiny.  
  
“Dean? Is that you?” Missouri Moseley is decked in a soft yellow dress with a pressed white apron over the top of it, and she blinks at Dean over the counter.  
  
Dean smiles, wide and sentimental. “It's me.”  
  
“Why you!” In a blink Missouri's around the counter, wrapping Dean up in her big strong arms, and hugging him so tight Castiel can see the strain in her muscles. “You don't write, you don't call. I haven't seen you in years.”  
  
Dean chuckles against the woman's shoulder. “Sorry, Missouri. Life's been-”  
  
“Don't you say busy, boy. Doesn't take long to pick up the phone every once-in-awhile, ya hear?”  
  
“Yes, ma'am.” When Dean pulls away his eyes are sparkling, and he's looking at her the same way he looks at Ellen. Grateful.  
  
“And who's this beautiful angel?” Missouri asks, sizing up Castiel, her gaze piercing right through him, and it feels like she can see even the most private thoughts inside his head. Her presence is uncomfortably keen.  
  
Dean puts a hand on Cas's back, pushes him forward a bit. “This is Castiel.”

Castiel sticks out a hand, feeling his skin form goosebumps when Missouri takes it, covers it with one of her own. “Colors,” Missouri mutters, blinking into Castiel's eyes.

“I'm sorry?”

“Your thoughts, your aura. It's all colors.”

“Oh.” Castiel is at a loss for words, not even remotely knowing what the woman means by that. And he's afraid to ask. “Thank you?”

Dean chuckles, puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder and squeezes. “He's not even used to Pamela yet, Missouri, take it easy on him.”

Missouri smiles at Castiel, soft and genuine, and Castiel relaxes into her touch. “Let's get you some food,” she says.

“How many psychics do you know?” Cas questions out of the corner of his mouth as they're led to a booth near the kitchen.

Dean smiles at him, winks. “Too damn many.”

The Formica table top is a pearly blue, and Castiel tucks himself into the corner, feeling warm when Dean slides in next to him. It took less time than he anticipated getting used to Dean's addiction to touch, and now he not only understands the appeal but craves Dean's touch just as much.

Missouri tries to hand them menus, but Dean shakes his head. “You still offer the Winchester?”

“Of course, I do, boy. A classic, that one.”

“I always was a culinary genius,” Dean retorts, grinning at Castiel like he's the cat that got the fucking cream.

Castiel and Missouri make eye contact, and Missouri doesn't roll her eyes, but Cas is certain she understands when he does.

“Hey,” Dean says, frowning. “None of that you two. You just met; there's a waiting period before you're allowed to silently make fun of me in front of my face.”

“Missouri, will you bring me and Gordon Ramsey here two of the Winchesters? I think he might be too modest to ask for one himself.”

Missouri's smile is full of approval, and when she glances at Dean, he's frowning. “I like this one,” she offers. “Keeps you on your toes just like he should.”

“There's a term for that you know,” Dean mutters. “It's called Pain In My Ass.”

“Like I said,” Missouri offers, “I like him.”

When she's sauntering off towards the kitchen, Castiel loops his arm through Dean's where it rests on the table and noses at Dean's temple. “I'd like to hear more about your time here,” he intones in Dean's ear, voice quiet. Dean sinks lower on the bench, relaxing.

“My first paying job was at Missouri's,” he tells Castiel. “I started slinging hash and making burgers when I was ten years old. Sammy would sit right here and do his homework, and when he was done with that, he'd help bus the tables.”

“You were so young.”

Dean shrugs, smiling. “We needed the money, and I was proud to do my part. Missouri only paid us a few dollars an hour, but it still beat sitting at home wondering when Dad was going to stumble in. And it kept Sammy busy. The busier that kid was, the less he asked about Dad.”

Dean is relaxed, looks happy enough, but there's always something in his voice when he mentions his childhood. It's quiet and impalpable, but it's there.

“You never got to be a child, did you.”

“My mom died when I was four, Cas. Wasn't really time for a childhood after that. Sammy and Dad needed me.”

Castiel could argue that Dean was _four_ , and the only person he should have been taking care of was himself. Instead he nods. “I understand.” Because there's a small part of him that does understand.

When Missouri brings out their burgers, she perches herself on the empty bench across from them, folding her arms over the tabletop.

“So, what brings you here, honey?”

Dean, burger halfway to his mouth, pauses. “Came to visit the folks.”

“I was disappointed when you weren't with Sam a few months back.” Missouri's dark eyes are soft when she says it, but Castiel can feel the subtle chastisement behind the statement.

“Yeah well,” Dean dips a fry in the ketchup he dumped on to his plate not seconds before and shoves it in his mouth. “I'm here to make it right now.”

Missouri nods, satisfied. “You tell your daddy he better be taking good care of your mama up there.”

“Will do.”

“You’ll let me know when you’re ready for some pie? We’ve got pecan today.”

Dean’s grin is wide when he responds, “Hell yeah, we’ll let you know.”

The silence that settles between them as they eat is amenable, elbows brushing every now and again, conversation between them coming and going easily. Cas’s skin prickles, his chest a little tight, but he’s warm and Dean seems happy, and that makes Castiel feel happy, too.

Missouri brings out three slices of pie, two for Dean, one for Castiel, and it’s like Dean’s got a hollow leg with all the food he can pack away in one sitting.

“You’re going to die of clogged arteries when you’re forty, I just know it,” Castiel mutters around his fork.

Dean shrugs, digging into one of his slices of pie. “Yeah, well, princess, you’re gonna die from lung cancer when you’re like thirty-six, so, keep a spot warm up there for me, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

Dean looks over at Castiel, smiles at him in a way that’s got nothing to do with feeling happiness, and everything to do with being a complete and utter asshole. “Maybe later.”

“You wish.”

At that, Dean moves in a little closer, lips right against Castiel’s ear, his hand landing high on Cas’s thigh. “Actually,” Dean murmurs, sliding his hand ever higher, “I imagine you’ll be the one wishing.” Castiel fails to suppress the shiver that skips down his spine at Dean’s breath in his ear, his thumb running along the inseam of his jeans.

“I hate you,” Cas growls, dragging Dean in for a kiss. “I really, really hate you.”

~

Missouri waves Dean off when he asks for the check, but he drops a couple of twenties on the table anyway before leading Castiel out of the diner.

Outside the moon is rising fat and bright against a lavender and salmon sky. The clouds are tinged with silver, the sun dropping lazily into the horizon, and bleak trees are cutting dark silhouettes against the sky. It’s about zero fucking degrees outside, but with everything lit up the way it is it gives the earth a warm glow.

Castiel tugs his beanie low over his ears then shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket (which he remembered to bring, despite Dean’s lack of faith in him). “What’s next?”

“I dunno,” Dean wanders over to the Impala, scratching behind his ear. “Motel? HBO? Shower?”

Castiel shakes his head, he might be dating the most easily pleased man on the planet. “Or,” he backs Dean up against the car, lining their bodies front to front and taking the lapels of Dean’s jacket in his hands, “first you could give me the fifty-cent tour.”

“Is this part of your _observing humanity_ thing?”

“No. This is part of my _observing you_ thing.” Castiel slips his hands beneath Dean’s jacket, wrapping his arms around Dean’s back where it’s warm and he’s protected from the chill. He cants his head up, presses his lips to Dean’s. “And you did offer yourself as a suitable tour guide to the real world some months ago. You were going to show me the finer things in life, remember?”

Dean smirks, shaking his head. “Highly doubt you’re going to consider my craptastic childhood haunts as finer things, Edlund.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.”

Dean sighs. “Fine, let’s go.”

“Great,” Castiel says, grinning. “Just let me get a camera.”

~

Dean takes them to a spot downtown where the buildings aren’t exactly in pristine condition, but it’s busy and bursting with light. He points out an old movie theatre made of brick that’s wearing at the edges and fading in the middles. The marquee, though, is huge and bright, and there are people crowded around the one-man ticket booth.

“I used to sneak out and see movies here before I was even double digits. The chick who always ran the ticket booth – Gwen? – took pity on me and never made me pay for a ticket. Never told my dad either.”

“[ Blood Feast ](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056875/),” Castiel says, reading the marquee.

Dean chuckles to himself. “Yeah they’re always showing obscure horror films, even during Christmastime. I think that’s why I liked this place so much.”

Castiel rolls down his window, pointing his camera up at the marquee, everything else shadows in the background. When he snaps a photo, his heart skips a beat, and he spends a moment just looking through the lens, brain falling back on muscle memory, and that familiar feeling he was once so used to, of being a part of people’s lives without making a ripple, washing over him.

“It’s just a movie theatre, babe.”

“No, it’s a piece of you, Dean. And it’s a piece of him, and her, and them,” he glances out the window, eyes landing on specific people before flitting on to the next, “and that makes it important.”

Dean’s responding smile is crooked, endearing. “You’re a weird, dorky little guy, you know that?”

“I hardly think I’m little.”

“And I hardly think you ain’t.”

After the movie theatre Dean points out other buildings as they roll past them, a library Sam was fond of, a diner with the best milkshakes in town – “Don’t you dare tell Missouri” – and an arcade he and Sam spent a good deal of time at when their father was passed out drunk and they had more freedom than any seven- and eleven-year-old should’ve had.

They drive past more buildings, more people, until they’re turning onto a poorly lit street, passing derelict trailers with more dirt and weeds in their front yards than grass.

“We squatted here for a few weeks at one point,” Dean indulges, slowing as they pass a single wide towards the end of the row. It might have been blue once, or maybe gray, and the windows are so thick with dust Castiel can hardly see inside.

“See that shed right there? Sam climbed to the top and jumped off.” Dean’s eyes are soft, lined at the edges, and despite the tragedy of being homeless it still looks like it’s a fond memory for him. “The kid broke his arm. I had to drive him to the E.R. on my handlebars.”

“Why’d he jump?” Cas wonders, eying the shed and picturing a young Sam teetering at the top.

Dean snorts a laugh. “Because he was dressed as Batman and thought he could fly.”

“Your influence, no doubt, seeing as you’re the only person I know who’d be under the impression Batman can fly.”

“Actually, I was sporting a Superman costume that day, and I made it to the ground just fine.”

“Ah, so you did have some sense at one point,” Castiel snarks, shooting a smirk at Dean.

Dean bobs his head, imitating Castiel in a nasally voice. “Ah, so you did have some sense at one point.”

Castiel merely laughs, then hoists his camera into the air and lines up the roof of the shed in his viewfinder. He doesn’t get the rest of the house, or even the bottom of the shed, but the rickety roof set against a twilight sky speaks more volumes than if he had.

“Alright, Ansel Adams, can we go?”

“I think you mean Henri Cartier-Bresson.”

Dean frowns. “Who the fuck is that?”

“He was a humanist photographer; Ansel Adams did landscape,” Castiel remarks, holding his camera up and snapping Dean’s perplexed expression just to be irritating. “I figured if you’re going to call me names, you might as well be accurate. Not that my work is in any way comparable to Henri’s, but at least you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh my god,” Dean grumbles. “Whatever. Can we get the hell out of Dodge?”

Castiel beams at Dean, nodding. “Yes, take me to whatever that is.” He points past the shed and towards lights glittering in the distance.

“ _I_ don’t even know what that is,” Dean admits, staring up at where the sky is illuminated.

“I guess we’ll find out together.”

~

It turns out the lights are coming from a carnival set up in an empty field just a few blocks away from where they were. It’s not very big with maybe four or five rides and a handful of food and game stands, but it’s a carnival.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, grabbing Dean’s arm and pointing out the windshield. “They have a Ferris wheel.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t do Ferris wheels.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide and pleading. The last time he was on a Ferris wheel he was twelve years old, and he and Jimmy had told their mother they were going to a study group and had made off for a local fair instead. “I’ll ride it myself, then.”

Dean sighs, idling in the dusty parking lot as he winces up at the ride in question, carnival-goers dangling precariously at the top when the ride stops.

“Fine,” Dean mutters. “But if I die on this thing, I’m haunting your ass.”

Castiel smiles, leans in to press a kiss to Dean’s temple. “You aren’t going to die,” he assures Dean, and then he’s out of the car and waiting for Dean to follow.

The air outside smells of melting butter and grease, and as soon as it hits Dean’s nose, he visibly perks up.

“You’re gettin’ me a corndog after this,” he informs Cas as they brush past carnival-goers and towards the Ferris wheel, “and a funnel cake.”

“Anything else?”

Dean quirks a smile at Castiel, and he looks brilliant against the deep dark sky of Kansas and the bright carnival lights. Castiel snaps a picture before Dean responds. “Yeah,” he says, wrapping an arm around Cas’s waist and drawing him in. “You’re gonna fuck me when we get to the motel.”

“Fine, but only if I can tie you up,” Castiel quips, kissing Dean’s nose. A pretty flush fills Dean’s cheeks – highlighting his freckles – and his green eyes grow wide and eager.

“You’d really-” Dean stammers.

Castiel’s lips brush Dean’s ear. “Why don’t we get this show on the road and you can find out?”

After that Dean practically drags Castiel towards the Ferris wheel.

In line Dean’s shifting from foot to foot, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, and his gaze postured towards the sky. “How high up d’you think they are?”

Castiel motions towards the sign right next to the ticket booth. “Fifty feet.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Castiel chuckles, bumping his shoulder against Dean’s. “You are quite the enigma.”

“I am not. It’s high up, we could fall, and we could die. Nothing complex about that, Cas.”

“Yes, but you’ll readily charge into a blazing fire.” Castiel’s smiling when Dean looks at him, his mouth pulled into a smug curve and his brow quirked. “Like I said. Enigma.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Castiel nudges him forward, towards where a teenager in a black STAFF t-shirt is motioning them onto the ride. “Tickets?” he asks.

Castiel happily hands the teen their tickets and then plops himself into the nearest carriage, waiting for Dean to size the seat up before finally, finally lowering himself next to Castiel. Their lap bar is pulled down and secured, and then their carriage is lurching backwards and into open air.

“I’m gonna hurl,” Dean manages, eyes closed and knuckles bloodless where they’re curled around the lap bar.

“Hey,” Castiel calls. After a beat Dean peels his eyes open and blinks at Castiel. His face is pale, and there are beads of sweat forming along his hairline. “Hold my hand.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dean growls, “if I let go then this thing is gonna pop open, and we’re gonna-”

“Die?” Castiel chuckles, prying Dean’s hand off the lap bar and slotting it against his own. Dean’s fingers are all crumpled and red, but he doesn’t let go. “Dean.”

Dean looks to Castiel, drawing in deep breaths.

“Kiss me,” Castiel says.

At that Dean’s face softens, and he licks his lips, color coming back into his cheeks. “You’re trying to do a thing,” he mutters.

“We can be romantic, right?” Castiel wonders, because for as long as he and Dean have been together, even unofficially, romance is something that’s fallen to the wayside in place of passion and angst and figuring things out. But they can be romantic. They can do dates, and Ferris wheels, and kissing without sex.

“Fuck yeah we can be romantic.” Dean moves to cup Castiel’s face in his hands, bringing their mouths together and kissing him slow and deep. Castiel feels warm in his toes and his belly and his chest, and there’s a smile growing on his face that’s free of sarcasm and snark. Dean may be what’s keeping him together on most days, a rock Castiel leans on more often than not, but Dean’s also his boyfriend. And sometimes all Castiel wants him for is to hold his hand and kiss him just like this while they soar above the Earth and forget for a few minutes all the shit that’s waiting for them when they’re back on solid ground.

Castiel’s hands have found Dean’s where they rest on his cheeks, and he slips his fingers between Dean’s. “Thank you,” he murmurs. And for the first time since they climbed aboard, Dean smiles.

At the top, Castiel can see for miles. He snaps photos of the carnival-goers below them, a small family, some teenagers, a couple, and then he sets his camera to the side to live in the moment. Dean’s still gripping the lap bar, but maybe not so tightly, and his shoulders relax when Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s knee, leaning into his side to snuggle close.

“I used to hate stuff like this,” Castiel mutters, burying his cold nose in Dean’s neck, smiling when Dean shivers. “But Jimmy put so much light and love into everything, it was hard to hate anything with him nudging me at every turn.”

Dean presses a kiss against the deep yellow beanie covering Castiel’s hair. “I only had her for four years, but my mom was like that, too. I think she’s the reason I love pie so much. It reminds me of her; she fed it to me all the time, and it’s just part of who my mom was to me, y’know? It’s stupid, but-”

Castiel looks up at Dean. “It isn’t stupid, Dean. It’s yours. No one else is allowed to have an opinion about it.”

Dean’s lips twitch, and he presses a kiss to Cas’s lips. “You’re right,” he says.

A beat of silence passes between them, and Castiel reaches for his camera again, lines up the lap bar over their legs and their feet resting on the runner beneath them. When he settles it next to his hip, Dean leans back, curls an arm around Castiel’s back.

“How’d you get into that anyway?”

Castiel leans against Dean, pulling the sleeves of his jacket over his hands to keep them warm. “Jimmy,” he begins with. “When I was younger, I was always too afraid to go outside, let alone leave our property. Mother never asked why, but Jimmy did. I don’t think he understood when I told him there were too many people in the world, that I was afraid I’d get swallowed up and disappear, but he never teased me about it. Instead he saved his money for months and months in order to buy me my first camera. When he gave it to me he told me ‘pictures are never as scary as real life.’ From then on I never put it down.”

“He took care of you a lot, didn’t he?”

Castiel nods, a small smile alighting on his face. “Things definitely could have been worse without him.”

“God,” Dean mumbles. He holds Castiel a little tighter after that, kisses him a little softer until their carriage reaches the ground and they’re let off. “So much for romantic, huh?” he asks, stumbling off the ride on shaky legs.

Castiel pulls him aside, wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. “It was perfect,” he states with a smile. “Thank you.”

~

Hours later they find the Sleep Easy motel just down the street from the cemetery. The comforter is an ugly orange color and the curtains look about as old as the building itself, but it will do for the night.

 

“Shower?” Castiel mumbles, dropping his suitcase in the corner next to Dean’s duffle bag.

Dean’s grin is wolfish when he responds, “Shower.”

Under the warm spray, Castiel guides Dean in with two hands on his hips and kisses him gently, his tongue moving slow and exploratory in Dean’s mouth. “How does it feel to be back?”

Dean shrugs, pressing in closer. “Different,” he mutters, hand sliding through the hair at Castiel’s temple.

“Different?”

“After we planted my dad, I swore I’d never come back here. Thought it’d be too hard, but- it’s different than I expected. I don’t know, I’m just- trying not to think about it too much.”

Castiel nods, “I can help with that.”

Dean smiles, and as he reaches for the soap Castiel backs him up against the shower wall, sucking on his neck while Dean lathers Castiel’s back with citrus smelling suds. After a moment Castiel moves back to Dean’s mouth, propping a hand beside Dean’s head and allowing the other to trail down Dean’s side, slide over the curve of his ass, and squeeze.

“Love your butt,” Cas mutters, “it’s a good butt.”

Dean chuckles, tipping his chin up when Castiel moves to kiss along Dean’s jaw and throat. “You’re not giving me a lot of space to participate, you know.”

“You don’t need to participate, Dean, you just need to let me take care of you.” He’s sure Dean doesn’t mean to let out what sounds strikingly like a whimper, but Castiel hears it anyway and he smiles into Dean’s skin. “That’s right, baby. When have you ever let anyone take care of you without feeling like you’re indebted to them afterwards?”

“Never,” Dean admits. He’s just hanging onto Castiel now, hands slippery and warm, and Dean putting full trust in Castiel gives him a strength he didn’t know he was missing. And it’s not about dominance, and it’s not about controlling, it’s about trusting and knowing he possesses the ability to take care of someone exactly how they need him to.

They say one can’t pour from an empty cup, and for so long Castiel had nothing to pour. But then Dean came along and brought with him a family that immediately accepted Castiel, and slowly his cup began to fill.

And now, though it may only be a little, he can pour again.

Turning Dean away from the spray, Castiel stands behind him, rubbing soap over Dean’s shoulders, and chest, and abdomen. Dean’s head falls back on Castiel’s shoulder, eyes closed, and mouth blowing out a steadying breath.

Castiel spends a moment giving Dean’s nipples some attention, and then his hand slides down, down, down until he’s gripping Dean’s length with a sudsy hand. “Say it again,” Castiel rumbles in his ear, circling his fist and stroking Dean lightly.

“Say what again?”

“What you told me. At my mother’s. Will you-” Castiel stops, grateful Dean can’t see his face, read the vulnerability written there. “Will you say it again, please.”

But then Dean does turn around, and he cups Castiel’s face in his hands and pulls him in for a kiss. “I love you,” he states, his voice pitched low and his eyes locked on Castiel’s. “You piss me off 11 days out of 10 – usually on purpose, too – and I know we’re both still kind of a mess, and sure, you make me do shit like ride death traps and wander around a dirty flea market for half the day, but I love you so fucking much. _You’re it for me_.”

Castiel’s chest is full and warm. No, not warm, burning, _radiating,_ the feeling of being wanted and needed, of being someone’s end all be all. He kisses Dean back and mutters, “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” until Dean moves to kiss Castiel’s cheek and whisper the words in his ear one more time.

After that they don’t spend more time in the shower than is necessary, and when Dean steps out and onto the bathmat, sopping wet and smelling of Castiel’s soap, Castiel’s willpower is tested.

“Dean, bed, _now_.”

“Where are you going?”

Castiel stops, turns to face Dean. “To get a tie. And some lube.”

“Fuck, you were serious about that.” Dean’s cheeks are rosy, his nipples hard, and Castiel can make out the distinct line of his cock beneath the towel. He looks gorgeous, and Castiel wants him. All of him.

“Unless it’s something you’re not comfortable with. The decision is up to you, Dean.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head and runs a thumb over his plush bottom lip, a nervous tic of his. “I trust you. And uh- I want to do it. A lot. Just never-” his eyes find the floor now, but Castiel reaches over, tips Dean’s chin up.

“Look at me, Dean.” When Dean obeys, something warm and satisfying pumps through Castiel’s veins. “You just never, what?”

“Just never knew how to ask for it.”

“Whatever you want, Dean,” Castiel strokes Dean’s cheek with the pad his thumb, “it’s yours.”

Castiel guides Dean in to kiss him again, and again, and again until neither of them can breathe, and then Cas is directing Dean to get comfortable on the bed and rummaging through their bags.

“You’ll tell me if you get uncomfortable?”

Dean nods, craning his neck to watch Castiel tie his hands together and loop the tie through the bottom slats of the headboard. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” Dean croaks. “Uh- really good.”

With Dean’s hands secured above his head, Castiel trails his fingers along Dean’s ribs experimentally, watching the skin flutter beneath his touch. He’s dotted with goosebumps, whether from the cold or the anticipation Castiel isn’t sure, but it’s exhilarating to see him that way.

“How do you want it, Dean?” Castiel asks, mouthing at Dean’s clavicle. He bites gently at the skin there, and Dean sucks in a gasp.

When he doesn’t answer, Castiel climbs atop him, straddling Dean’s hips and lowering his towel clad ass onto Dean’s dick. He moves slowly, just enough for Dean to feel him, but not enough to get Dean anywhere but frustrated.

“Dean,” Castiel calls again. “I asked you a question.”

“Oh god, hard.”

“Hard…?”

“Hard, _please_.”

Castiel leans over him then, Cheshire grin on his face. “That’s my good boy,” he rumbles, and Dean moans.

While Castiel opens him up, he mouths at Dean’s ribs, his shoulder, his thighs, biting until Dean reacts and then following it up with open-mouthed kisses.

“I’m ready,” Dean’s panting when Castiel presses a third finger inside him. His chest is a canvas of beautiful red splotches, and there are stray tears making streams down his temples and disappearing into his hair. He looks _happy,_ glowing from the inside out. “I’m ready,” he repeats, voice coming out quiet, meek, “please.”

Castiel lines himself up and begins to push inside.

Before Castiel has even moved, Dean tugs at where he’s still bound to the headboard, then falls back to the mattress with an irritated huff.

Castiel lays himself out on Dean’s abdomen and chest, covering Dean’s mouth with his own. “What is it you want, Dean? Tell me.”

“Deeper,” Dean breathes. “Untie me. My legs- I want you deeper.”

“Would you really like me to untie you?”

Dean goes still for a beat, his eyes giving away the thought process running through his brain. When he makes eye contact with Castiel again, he shakes his head. “No.”

Castiel nods, leans in to press his lips to Dean’s once more. “I’ll take care of you.”

He situates a couple of pillows underneath Dean’s hips, then pushes deeper inside, urging Dean’s legs – bent at the knees – to move up, up, up until they’re held on either side of his belly. When Castiel slips in just a little bit more, Dean sighs, and Cas begins to move, pulling out then slamming back in again, and again, and again.

Castiel considers ordering Dean to remain silent, but the noises he’s making, the pleasure falling past his lips, urges Castiel to move harder, faster, deeper. When he hits Dean’s prostate, though, Dean sucks in a gasp, the room falling mostly silent save for the sound of Castiel taking Dean just the way he asked him to. Dean lies there for a beat, mouth held open, eyes closed.

“You’re so good, Dean. You’re doing so good,” Castiel mutters, lifting Dean until his legs are circling Castiel’s waist and Castiel is hitting that sweet spot up inside him again, and again, and again.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m-”

Castiel slams into him, and his legs wobble, the want in his stomach coiling, coiling, coiling until finally it snaps and Castiel is pumping his release inside Dean.

“Fuck,” Dean cries out, and Castiel watches, amazed, as Dean comes, untouched, striping his chest and abdomen with his own come.

Castiel leans in, kisses Dean through his release, reaching for the tie around Dean’s wrists. As soon as he’s freed Dean’s arms, Dean rolls over, settling himself atop Castiel and kissing him fervent, eager.

“Thank you,” Dean whispers between kisses. “Thank you, baby.”

“How do you feel?” Castiel runs a hand through Dean’s damp hair, smiling when it sticks up on end.

“I’m awesome,” his grin is wide and honest, but then his face goes a bit subdued and he blinks down at Castiel. “How’re you doing?”

Castiel thinks a moment, fingers sliding over Dean’s shoulder blades and down his spine. “That was probably some of the best sex I’ve had,” he jokes, cupping Dean’s face in his hands. “Thank you for trusting me; that was very- empowering.”

Dean smiles, leans in to kiss Castiel. Castiel allows his hands to roam again, sliding over the swell of Dean’s ass and squeezing, holding Dean open to slip two fingers inside him and work them lazily in and out of Dean.

“Oh god,” Dean moans. “Don’t even think about it, Edlund. I’m all used up for the night.”

Castiel flashes a smirk against Dean’s mouth, “What, you can’t get it up again?”

Dean groans and buries his face in Cas’s collarbone.

~

 _[8:07 AM]_ **_Went to grab breakfast. Coffee is coming._ **

_[8:08 AM]_ **_Don’t bother getting dressed. ;)_ **

_[8:08 AM]_ **_I love you._ **

Aside from Jimmy, no one’s ever told Castiel they love him. He reasons Ruby loves him, probably Anna and Alfie, too, maybe even Balthazar. But he’s never stopped to think about it, hasn’t ever really noticed it wasn’t something he knew – or cared to know – for sure.

And honestly, Castiel’s always figured himself to be the type of person that doesn’t really need the words anyhow.

They’re just words after all – words that may have held weight some time ago – people love _everything_. They love their music, and their art, their clothing, and their animals. They love restaurants, and cars, and celebrities, and money. Back when the words were sacred, they may have been more precious, but now. Now they’re thrown around as often as saying, “hello.” There isn’t any bravery or passion in the gesture. Not anymore.

Or so Castiel thought.

But then Dean came along, tough, guarded, arrogant Dean with his snarky one-liners and his give ‘em hell attitude, and he opened himself up to Castiel. Showed him all his sequestered vulnerabilities, the kind, loyal, selfless man that he is – the bleeding heart he wears so freely on his sleeve. And slowly Dean became the most important person, the center of Castiel’s universe, and hearing it from _Dean_ , listening to the words flow so freely off his tongue _means_ something.

Castiel’s fingers hover over his keyboard, eleven little letters are all it would take to return the sentiment.

_I love you, too._

He types out the message, stares at the words until they blur and his eyes focus on nothing. _Hit send_ , he thinks. _Do it._ But then panic and doubt rear their ugly heads, and he drops his phone on the bed next to him, curling around a pillow and squeezing it with all his strength, watching the seconds tick on until Dean returns.

~

When Dean pushes open the door, he’s silhouetted in bright, golden sunshine, one rectangular beam streaming in from outside. Castiel frowns into the light, his body relaxing against the mattress when he sees Dean.

As the door closes and Castiel’s eyes adjust to the dim lighting of their room, he takes one look at Dean and frowns. Dean’s wearing Castiel’s beanie. And his jacket, and his jeans, and his t-shirt.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean snarks, “you know I’m adorable.”

“That’s why I’m looking at you like this.” When Castiel continues to stare – body warm and smile barely kept from his face – Dean sighs.

“Your shit was closer than mine,” he retorts.

Castiel blinks at his suitcase and Dean’s duffle bag, tucked up together in the corner. “I didn’t ask, but yes, that extra millistep must have been trying.”

At that Dean blushes and looks away, shuffling over to a table across the room. “They smell like you, okay?”

He watches Dean’s backside for a moment, enjoying the view, then he slides out of bed, shivering in his nakedness, and approaches Dean from behind. Wrapping arms around Dean’s waist and resting his cheek between Dean’s shoulder blades he says, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He squeezes Dean tighter.

Dean chuckles and turns in Castiel’s arms. “You didn’t hurt my feelings,” he assures Cas. “I was just trying to be subtle about how goddamn gone I am on you. Y’know, self-preservation and all that.”

“You and subtlety are like oil and water.” Castiel counters. “Perhaps try that one again when your hair isn’t green.”

“You’ve got me there.” Dean leans in, kisses Castiel’s forehead and gives him a light smack on the ass. “Now get back in bed. Can’t have you getting frostbite, now, can we?”

Castiel’s mouth forms a small pout. “I thought you were going to keep me warm,” he grumbles, but he turns anyway and makes to retrieve a pair of underwear out of his suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting on underwear.”

Dean frowns, holding his coffee cup to his mouth. “Why?”

“In the event of frostbite, isn’t it usually the extremities that go first?”

“Good point. Maybe put some sweats on, too. And a couple extra blankets.”

Dean approaches the bed with their food and coffee just as Castiel’s climbing back in.

“I could’ve helped with that,” Castiel points out, graciously accepting his coffee. He breathes in the steam curling out over the lip of the cup and closes his eyes for a beat, letting the scent settle him.

Dean divvies out some wrapped breakfast sandwiches. “Didn’t need your help,” he grunts around a mouth of food.

“You don’t have to take care of everything all the time, you know that, right?” Castiel nurses his coffee, waiting for the hot liquid to warm him before going in for the food. “We’re a team.”

Dean swallows, lowers his sandwich. “I know, I’m sorry.” He stops there, but Castiel can see more swimming in his eyes, so he waits, watches, until Dean continues. “I’m nervous about the whole seeing my parents thing,” he finally admits. “I know that’s stupid, but-” And this, Castiel has learned, is Dean’s _thing_. When he’s anxious or upset, he puts his needs aside and focuses solely on taking care of everyone else in a way that’s almost neurotic.

“It isn’t stupid. And you know I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Yeah, I know.”

When Dean looks up from his lap, Castiel smiles softly at him, nodding. “Okay, Mother Hen.”

Dean frowns but doesn’t resist when Castiel pulls him in for a chaste kiss.

After their bellies are full of mediocre breakfast food, Castiel tugs Dean in again, rests his forehead on Dean’s, and purses his lips until Dean meets him halfway to bring their mouths together. With a sigh Castiel reaches for Dean’s arm, pulls it around himself.

“Not that I’m complaining, but you’re an octopus this morning,” Dean murmurs. “You okay?”

“I just didn’t like waking up without you next to me.” It is the truth, just not the whole truth, but how is Castiel supposed to explain the complex he’s having over not having told Dean how he really feels about him despite wanting to?

“Sorry,” Dean buries his face in Castiel’s neck, and Castiel shivers under his chilled skin.

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for. _Somebody_ had to get breakfast.”

“Yeah, but I’ll wake you up next time, okay? I don’t like stressing you out.”

Castiel nods, burrowing closer to Dean’s chest. For a beat the room is silent, the sound of their tandem breathing the only disturbance in the air. “Dean, you know you’re very important to me, right?”

“’Course.” Dean’s reply is muffled against Castiel’s skin. “Why?”

“I just never want you to question whether or not I care for you.”

Dean raises his head, catches Castiel’s chin between his fingers. “I don’t,” he says. “Ever.”

Smiling, Castiel nods. “Okay.”


	20. Chapter 20

Most of the cemetery is frosted over, grass yellow and stiff, trees nothing but skeletons, patches of left over snow scattered randomly throughout the lot. It’s all so fucking dreary, and it’s like Mother Nature took what Dean feels like on the inside and painted the outside world with his cold and bare emotions.

He stands there – hands shoved in the pockets of the jacket he stole from Cas – staring out at it all with too many emotions to control building in his chest: guilt, anger, fear, shame.

A hand alights on his shoulder, and Cas’s voice calls to him quietly, “Dean.”

Dean blinks, turns to find Castiel’s gaze. They’d fought before they’d left the motel – well, Dean had tried to pick a fight – but even now, even after the guy has battled the brunt end of Dean’s shitastic coping skills, he’s still there by Dean’s side.

_“Dean, you didn’t force me to go through Jimmy’s things, and I’m not going to force you to do this. And I won’t fight with you about it either; it’s okay that you’re scared.”_

He’d said it right before rolling on top of Dean and letting all his weight settle onto Dean’s chest and stomach and legs, the steady presence of him grounding Dean, sweeping Dean’s shattered pieces under the rug, and drawing Dean’s focus to simply breathing.

_“We won’t leave until you’re ready.”_

Dean hadn’t been ready for another forty-five minutes, but Cas hadn’t said a word about it.

“Just- just another minute.”

Cas nods, takes hold of Dean’s hand. “Take as long as you need.”

With a few steadying breaths, Dean squeezes Cas’s hand and leads him through the cemetery to where his parents rest.

The grave sites are clean, recently weeded – a comforting contrast to the rest of their surroundings – and Castiel stands close by as Dean stares down at his parents’ names etched into granite. They share a headstone, one large enough to reach both their plots, and it’s a simple but personal piece with roses crawling over the corner with Mary’s name and the Marine Corp emblem on John’s side.

“Took me’n Sammy almost a year to save up for this thing,” Dean says, nudging the granite with the toe of his boot. “Bobby and Ellen pitched in, too. This is the first time I’ve seen it not in a picture.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Dean responds with a nod.

He’s got so much he wants to tell his folks, and at the same time nothing at all, because they’re gone, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Or so he tries to convince himself. After a beat he lets out a shaky breath. “Hey Mom, Dad. Sorry I uh- haven’t been around in a while. Or ever, I guess.”

Dean’s sure Cas can hear the thickness in his voice, the quiver buried beneath the deep, rumbling cadence of Dean’s words, and so he stops, swallows, and doesn’t begin again.

“Would you like a moment?” Castiel’s voice is gentle.

Dean wants to tell him no, wants to tell him he’s the only thing grounding Dean right now, but a tear trickles from his eye, his bottom lip trembling as he studies the graves, and maybe it’d be better if Cas weren’t here to witness Dean’s inevitable break down. “Don’t go too far.”

Cas reaches for Dean’s face, pulls him in with two warm hands and presses his lips to Dean’s. Dean watches Castiel’s form retreat into a gathering of trees and wind between graves, close enough for Dean to see him but too far away for him to hear Dean when he cries.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says after some time. He’s looking at his mom’s name, tracing the lines and curves with his eyes, wanting to reach out with his fingers but not daring. Not yet. “I’m sorry I left you. I was-” another breath, a shake of his head, a lump in his throat so big it hurts to swallow. “ _God, I miss you_.” His eyes blur with more tears, and a sob rips through his chest as he bows his head and cries.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he speaks again, seconds, minutes maybe, but at some point, he’d knelt in the frost, knees growing damp and shins numb with cold, his tears flowing first for Mary then for John. _You left us, you drunk asshole_ , he can’t help but think.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again, his eyes falling to the ground in shame, because John didn’t leave them. John jumped in front of a goddamn truck, for _Dean_ . “This isn’t your fault, it’s mine.” And Dean thinks about it all, thinks about that night, the phone call from the bar, _You need to come get your daddy,_ the deafening sound of the rain and the chill it had sent through Dean’s bones as he’d slugged out to the Impala.

He still remembers the sound of the wind as it ripped past the Impala, roaring in his ears, and the eerie yellow color of the man’s eyes who was the reason for John’s death that night. He’d glared at Dean as the police had pulled him from the truck, not remorseful, just cold.

If Dean had only…

 **_No._ ** If _John_ hadn’t been at that goddamn bar in the first place… If he hadn’t been a drunk idiot for a better part of Dean’s life… It’s easy for Dean to blame himself, so easy. And maybe there will always be a part of him that’s convinced John’s death is his fault, that _everything_ is his fault, but it’s not like his dad had been around before then either. Even before Mary was gone, Dean had been cleaning up John’s messes, trying to hold their family together. As a veteran, John came home with scars long before the fire and Dean was there to witness them all.

 _You left us._ Dean reiterates silently. _Sammy needed a dad. He needed_ you _. It ain’t fair he got stuck with me, Dad; I couldn’t give him everything he needed. Not like you could have if you’d’ve pulled your head out of your ass for one goddamn minute._

As easily as the anger comes, though, guilt follows eagerly in its footsteps, curling around Dean deep and icy. _He did the best he could._ It’s Dean’s default defense mechanism, and so engrained is it into his person that it comes to him as simple as breathing. _You were never going to be just a brother to Sam, not after Mom died, maybe not ever._

Dean’s hands, where they rest rigid and clenched at his sides, go slack, and he takes a deep, steadying breath. Too many conflicting emotions are warring inside him, all of them so stifling he feels like he’s gasping for air.

“Anyway,” he finally says, “it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to tell you guys me’n Sammy, we’re okay. I’m uh-” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I’m workin’ for Bobby; he keeps me in line, and Sam,” Dean chuckles to himself, reminiscing on the parts of Sam’s life his parents have missed, “he’s going to Stanford in a few months. He’s got a girlfriend I’ll never let him hear me say I don’t hate, but I don’t think they’ll last, not when Sammy leaves for California. He’s working now, too. Won’t let me pay for everything anymore. He’s growing up so goddamn fast.”

More tears leak from his eyes, and he bows his head, waiting for composure to come. “I’m uh- I’m trying to do right by you guys, trying to raise him right, and I think I’m doing an okay job. He’s really smart – got that from Mom, obviously – and he’s a hard worker, and stubborn as fuck – yeah Dad, that’s from you – and he’s- he’s a good kid. I think you guys would be real proud of him.”

Dean smiles thinking about his baby brother and all the incredible things he’s accomplished in life. John and Mary _would_ be proud. That much Dean knows.

Footsteps crunching on the hard-packed snow cut through the silence, and Castiel comes to stand at Dean’s side. “They’d be proud of you, too, Dean.” He glances down at John and Mary’s grave. “I didn’t know them, but I know you and how much good you’ve done. They’d be proud. And if they aren’t, they should be.”

Dean opens his mouth to retort because sure, Dean’s made a few decisions in his life that haven’t left him completely on his ass, Sammy, fighting fires, Cas, but that doesn’t make him good and it doesn’t make his life anything special. As long as his mom and dad are proud of Sam and the man he’s become today, Dean’s good. But Cas doesn’t stop there. Instead he looks down at John and Mary’s headstone.

“If Dean won’t tell you how wonderful he is, I will. You deserve to know, not only that Sam is an incredible human being, but that Dean is as well. He’s a selfless caretaker and has shown Sam so much love and support that it’s quite obvious to see how Sam turned out so well. He puts everyone else’s needs first making sure his family is fed, happy, and loved. John, I think you’d be pleased with the way Dean cares for his car. I’ve never seen her look anything less than perfect in the time I’ve known Dean, and Mary, Dean is a _master_ in the kitchen. It saddens me you’ll never taste his pie, but I believe you’d like it very much. He’s smart, and he’s kind, and perceptive; he gives so much of himself every single day, and he’s logical and creative, and he’s _brave_.”

After a moment Castiel nudges Dean with an elbow. “Tell them about your new job,” he encourages.

“I-” John didn’t want Dean to be a firefighter. He forbade it, and Dean went against his dad’s order. Even now, with John in the ground, Dean has to wrangle his courage before he can confess.

Worrying his bottom lip, chest hot with nerves, Dean curls his hands into fists. The bite of his nails against his palms stings just enough to settle him, even if it is just a little bit. “I’m going to be a firefighter,” he blurts. Closing his eyes, he waits for the lightning to strike. But it never does. In fact, something warm curls around him, wrapping around his neck, and shoulders, and arms like some kind of ethereal hug.

“It has taken such valor to do so,” Cas explains for him, “and he’s taken the role in stride.”

At this point, Dean can feel heat in his cheeks, his eyes burning with tears for an entirely new reason, and he reaches for Castiel’s hand, slots their fingers together tightly.

“If I don’t stop him now, he’ll go on for hours,” Dean mutters, letting out a light laugh.

“Only because I _could_ go on for hours. You’re a good person, Dean.”

Nodding Dean leans in for a kiss, smiling against Cas’s mouth. “Oh yeah,” Dean says, pulling away momentarily, sniffing through his tears and turning back to his parent’s grave, “this is Cas. I’m kind of in love with him.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Castiel nods down at the graves.

After another beat of silence, Dean’s feeling cleansed, and light, and free. There’s still an ache of sadness throbbing deep inside his heart, but he didn’t expect that to go away in the first place. Cas is right, though, Mom and Dad probably would be proud of Dean. And that feels good.

“You ready to get out of here?” Dean questions, looking to his parents’ headstone with a flood of love pouring out of him.

“One more thing,” Castiel says. Letting go of Dean’s hand, Castiel crouches before the headstone, seriousness overtaking his features. “Your son is the _greatest_ thing that has ever happened to me,” he mutters, “and I promise you I’ll do my very best to take care of him, just as he cares for me. I’m proud to call him my partner. I hope you’ll be proud of him, too.”

Dean cries the whole way to the car. “Thank you,” he mutters once inside, heater cranked up all the way and windshield wipers squeaking along the wet glass of Baby’s front window.

“For what?” Castiel looks up at Dean after clicking his seatbelt into place. His hair hangs damp and curling in his eyes, his cheeks and nose colored pink from the chill outside, and Dean smiles at the sight.

“For being you,” he says, leaning across the bench seat to press his lips to Castiel’s. “I love you.”

A small smiles curls at the edge of Cas’s lips. “You’re welcome.”

Dean chuckles as he shifts the car into drive and points them towards home.

**:::**

“You left the tree up.” Dean drops his bags in the laundry room before wandering into the living room where Sam sits with his feet propped up on the coffee table and the TV casting a dull glow over his face. A glittering Christmas tree sits in the corner of the room, small but robust with color, the smell of pine permeating the air softly.

Sam turns to look at Dean, smiling in greeting, then huffing his usual huff when he thinks Dean’s being ridiculous (so about 90% of the time). “Dean, Christmas wasn’t even a week ago, why would I take the tree down?”

“Because it’s over.”

“Yeah, but you and I are still going to exchange gifts, aren’t we? I thought I’d leave it up until after that.”

Dean rests his hip on one arm of the couch, frowning at the television screen. “ _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , really, Sam?”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam stands from the couch, wrapping Dean up in his oversized frame, squeezing Dean until something cracks in his back, and Dean gasps for breath. “Sorry,” Sam chuckles.

“Yeah whatever. You missed me, I get it.”

“Did Cas go home?”

“Yeah. The guy was exhausted. Told me to tell you thank you for watching after Meg, though.” Dean rounds the couch and settles in as Sam reclaims his spot. “You really did him a solid with that, by the way.”

Sam shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, well, it was for him.”

For a moment their attention is drawn back towards the TV where a black and white George Bailey is gawking at a man in a hat and a bowtie. _“I told you, George, I’m your guardian angel.”_

“I never did get the hype with this movie,” Dean admits, shaking his head.

“It gives me perspective,” Sam offers.

“Yeah, okay, you want some dinner with that perspective? I’m gonna assume you haven’t eaten.”

“Dinner would be great,” Sam smiles over at Dean sheepishly. Dean smiles back. It’s good to be home.

~

“He gave you a _key_?” Sam’s grin is wide as he lies on his back on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, his knuckles brushing the floor, and the other thrown over his bleary eyes. Winchester Christmases aren’t complete without eggnog. Lots of eggnog.

There’s wrapping paper in a heap near the tree, the few gifts they got for each other recently opened and stacked haphazardly next to the discarded wrappings. _Die Hard_ started about forty-five minutes ago, and even though it’s a few days after Christmas, the celebration feels the same.

“Yup, asked me to move in with him and everything.” Dean swirls the last few swallows of his eggnog around in his glass, matching Sam’s grin with one of his own.

“Wow,” Sam lifts his arm to look at Dean where he’s sprawled out on the floor, back resting against the couch. “This is big,” he says, “when are you moving?”

Dean blinks down at his jeans, frowning. He hadn’t actually thought about _when_ he’d move, just that he _could,_ and looking around the living room now, at the tree he and Sam and Cas decorated together before they ditched Sam for Illinois, at the TV he and Sam spend way too much time in front of, at his giant man child of a brother draped across the couch, still smiling at the ceiling, the question of when becomes daunting. His attachment isn’t so much to the house or the things therein – the house is just a place, the things just stuff - but to Sam. Moving means leaving Sam, and that issue was already a bullet train moving way too fast. “Uh, I dunno,” he mumbles, “haven’t gotten that far.”

 

\---

 

“Do we need a bigger bed?” Castiel presses the phone to his ear with his shoulder, freeing up his hand to maneuver his computer mouse to a new window where he types _king mattresses_ into the search bar.

“Will your apartment even fit a bigger bed?”

“If you don’t bring a fuckton of shit with you.”

Dean’s responding chuckle is tinny in Castiel’s ear. “Fuckton, huh? Sounds like you been hanging around me for too long.”

“I won’t deny that.” Castiel absently scrolls through mattresses keeping one eye on the door and mostly ignoring the muffled chatter coming from Dean’s end. The shop has been slow all day, and the last two hours of his shift have been dragging painfully. He was lucky to catch Dean during down time at the station.

“Sorry,” Dean says, “Benny was giving me shit.”

“Do you need to go?”

“Nah, he’s just being annoying.”

The line falls silent for a beat. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking.” Dean’s voice is quiet, tentative, and Castiel frowns at the sound. _I’ve been thinking_ is almost as bad _as we need to talk_.

“About?”

“This whole moving in thing-”

Castiel chews on his lip, a nervous twist forming in his belly. Until today neither of them had brought up the subject, now Castiel knows why. “Oh?”

“Don’t get freaked out, I still want to do it.”

“But?” Despite Dean’s words, anxiety is pumping through Castiel’s veins. Most everything in his and Dean’s relationship has been one step forward, three steps back whether it’s been Castiel screwing things up or Dean. It had felt good to finally feel like they were both moving in the same direction and at the same pace, but now Castiel realizes he may have been hasty in his comfort.

“I just think it might be better for me to wait until Sam’s off at school.”

“Isn’t that nearly six months away?” Castiel can’t help but ask because while it’s not as if he expected Dean to pick up and move his life right away, he did think it’d happen sooner rather than later. Especially when later is six months down the road.

“Well yeah, but-”

“Are we moving too fast?” Castiel interrupts. It has only been a handful of months since they met and even less time since they’ve been together. Most couples take months, sometimes years, before they’re ready to move in with one another. And they aren’t ‘most couples,’ but Castiel also has no reference for what moving too fast looks like. When he asked Dean to move in with him – nearly on a whim – he hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that Dean might not be ready to do so.

But Dean had said yes…

“No,” Dean is quick to say. “No, not at all. Cas, I love you, and I want to be with you.”

“Just not until Sam’s gone.”

He can’t see Dean, but if he could, he’s sure he’d see Dean pinching the bridge of his nose, green eyes darkening in frustration and instantly Castiel feels guilty. He’s jarred by Dean’s decision, but Sam is Dean’s brother; Dean shouldn’t feel obligated to choose one of them over the other.

“Hey,” Dean says gently. “I still want to move in with you,” he reassures, “I just don’t want to leave Sammy alone, you know? The kid may be gigantic and in his twenties, but he’s still figuring life out. Doesn’t feel right ditching him right now.”

Castiel breathes a sigh and nods, despite being alone. “It’s okay,” he mutters. Because it is, it has to be. Castiel has no desire to come between Dean and his brother, and if that means waiting the six months before Sam’s off to school before he and Dean build a home together then that’s what he’ll do.

**:::**

Castiel stares up at the ceiling, blinking into the darkness at nothing. He’s lying on his bed, having not bothered to even get under the covers, just staring, Meg – who’s curled up on his chest – his only company. Dean postponing his move has never been far from Castiel’s thoughts in the past several days, a perpetual ghost lingering on the outskirts of his brain. The hurt he feels because of it is strange and unmanageable. He’s not resentful towards Sam, or even angry at Dean, those emotions would be too easy, instead he just feels lonely and that, despite being an emotion he’s become all too accustomed to, is the most complicated part about it.

He’s made it this far in his life without living with Dean, what’s a few more months? And it isn’t as if the two of them have broken up, he still sees Dean just as frequently, but the loss of the idea somehow still runs deep.

“I know I’m pouting,” Castiel says to Meg, running his fingers down her spine and circling them around her tail. “You don’t need to rub it in.”

Aside from swishing her tail out of Castiel’s loose grasp, Meg ignores him.

After that Castiel drifts, his body flirting with sleep while his brain cranks out anxiety ridden thoughts, keeping him from fully slipping under. He’s hovering in that fuzzy gray space that’s more sleep than not when he’s drawn to the surface – yet again – to the sound of a key sliding into the lock of the front door, and the door swinging open.

Castiel sits up, squinting in the darkness at where Dean’s feeling along the wall for the light switch. “Dean?”

“Honey, I’m home.”

“I didn’t expect you tonight,” Castiel admits.

“Thought it was time I broke in my key.” Dean finally finds the light switch and flicks it on, the whole studio swimming in a watery yellow light.

Now that he can see, Castiel peers past Dean out into the hallway, takes in the duffle bag and haphazardly stacked boxes resting just outside his door. “What’s all that?” When he looks to Dean for an explanation his hands are jammed in his pockets, shoulders raised, but he’s smiling.

“Sam kicked me out.”

Castiel frowns. Dean looks far too chipper for someone who’s just been forced to leave their own home. “What happened? Did you get in a fight?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, leans up against the door frame, his body slouched casually. “When I told Sam I was going to wait to move in, he called me a dumbass and kicked me to the curb. Kinda hurt my feelings, but he made a good point.”

Castiel’s heart is racing. “Oh?”

“Yeah. He said, ‘Dean, Cas is the best thing that has ever happened to you, and you’re gonna let him sleep alone for six more months?!’ Then he called me a dumbass and slammed his door just like he used to do when he was a hormonal teenager, confirming my suspicions that he is in fact still a hormonal – overgrown – teenager.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say or how to feel, confusion and elation sparring it out in his chest, so he sits quietly, waiting for Dean to finish filling in the blanks. “So,” he eventually prompts when Dean says nothing.

“So is it still cool if I move in with you? If you haven’t noticed I’m kind of in love with you and the thought of spending one more night apart pretty much ruined my whole night.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tick up and he sends a silent _thank you_ to Sam Winchester for having the good sense to put his desperately co-dependent brother in his place. “I’ve noticed.”

“Is that a yes?”

Castiel stands and crosses the room, reaching out to grab the lapels of Dean’s jacket and drag him in for a deep kiss. “Yes, you idiot,” he breathes into Dean’s mouth. “ _Yes_.”

After only a few moments, Dean talks Castiel into pausing their make out session to pull Dean’s things into the apartment. When he starts opening boxes, though, Castiel grabs his hand and pulls him towards the bed.

“What about unpacking?” Dean protests as Castiel pushes Dean’s jacket off his shoulders and starts to tug at the sleeves of his plaid overshirt.

“We can do that later,” Castiel growls, “right now I’m going to give you your house warming present.”

**:::**

It’s just after 10:30 on December 31st, and Dean - who pulled shifts at both the garage and the fire station - is already asleep.

With the last days of December spent getting Dean’s things moved in and arranged in Castiel’s apartment - _their_ apartment now - New Year’s Eve had come quickly, so they’d decided against a big celebration, leaving Bobby and Ellen and the others to fend for themselves while Sam picked up a shift at Shurley’s. Instead they ordered Chinese take-out and watched Ryan Seacrest’s rendition of _Dick’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve_ with a critical eye. Dean had passed out half-way through a Lady Gaga performance.

As a commercial flickers to life on the television screen, Castiel looks over at Dean’s sleeping form, his neck curved gently, head resting heavy against the couch cushions, mouth slightly ajar as he breathes, even and deep. Living with Dean has been an adjustment, but not the adjustment Castiel had anticipated. Having someone else in Castiel’s space has kept him feeling whole and content for days, chest constantly warm with Dean’s presence. His brain, however, has been a flurry of guilt and concern. He feels deeply for Dean, that much he knows, but expressing that has proved impossible, and the weight of it rests pressing on Castiel’s shoulders, an angry contrition lurking around every corner, screaming at him every time he looks at Dean and thinks the words but doesn’t say them.

And Dean’s made it very clear Castiel is not of the obligation to verbalize the sentiment back, but he _wants_ to. He just... hasn’t.

Pulling the heavy throw from the back of the couch, Castiel tucks it around Dean, then shrugs into a coat and his moccasins, and retreats to the roof.

Shivering against the chill, Castiel slides a cigarette between his lips and flicks at his lighter with stiff fingers until it produces a flame.

He’s halfway through his cigarette when the roof door bangs shut behind him, and he turns to see Dean, wrapped in the throw Castiel had put over him and shuffling towards Castiel with a frown.

“It’s fucking freezing up here, what are you doing?”

Castiel holds up his cigarette in response, and Dean’s frown deepens. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“About?” Dean takes hold of Castiel’s elbow, guides him to the rickety lawn chair, and pulls Castiel down with him.

Castiel hums, settling himself in-between Dean’s legs and melting against Dean’s chest as he wraps the blanket around them both. “What were we saying?” Castiel murmurs as Dean noses along the skin behind his ear.

“You were telling me what you’re up here thinking about.”

“Oh.”

When Castiel doesn’t immediately divulge his thoughts, Dean bites gently at his ear lobe. “Cas, baby.”

“I’m here,” Castiel offers, craning his neck to press his lips to Dean’s. “I was just- reflecting. It’s been a busy year.”

“It has.”

“And I was thinking-” he pauses to put out his cigarette, swallowing around the hot tears that form in his eyes. “I was thinking about Jimmy,” he finishes. It might not be the whole truth, but it is the truth. He has been thinking about Jimmy, about what Jimmy would say to Castiel if he were still alive today.

“You miss him,” Dean states.

Castiel sighs, closing his eyes as he snuggles in ever closer to Dean. “Every day.” When Dean doesn’t prompt for more, Castiel doesn’t offer, just closes his eyes and breathes in Dean.

They’re still outside when the sky lights up with fireworks bursting above their heads, below them echo cheers ringing in the new year.

“Love you,” Dean whispers in Cas’s ear as he hugs him from behind, hands comfortable around Castiel’s middle.

~

The fireworks have quieted, the sky nothing but a navy backdrop with a few silver pinpricks scattered here and there, when Castiel comes to the realization that the thing that’s holding him back, the _person_ holding him back is Jimmy. Jimmy, his best friend and confidant, the one person who knew absolutely everything about Castiel and the one person who matters most to him.

The one person he hasn’t told about Dean.

“Dean.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Look at me.” Castiel’s fingers slide along Dean’s stubbled cheek, drawing the other man’s face down and towards his own. When Dean’s eyes open, they’re tired and hazy, and Castiel quirks a smile at him. Dean is so beautiful.

“What’s up?”

Castiel’s smile fades, and he locks his gaze with Dean’s, heart pounding nervously. “I have to go away for a day, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

Dean frowns, eyes swimming with questions. “What do you mean you have to go away? Where are you going?”

“There’s just something I need to do, it’s-” Castiel searches for the right word, the word that will set Dean at ease but still afford Castiel his privacy. “Personal,” he decides on.

“Okay.” Dean looks anything but okay.

Castiel leans in to press his lips to Dean’s, waiting for the tension to ease out of Dean’s body. When it does, it’s only a marginal shift. “I’m sorry,” Castiel breathes against Dean’s mouth. “I know I’m being vague, but please believe me when I say everything’s okay. There’s just something I have to take care of. Alone. And when I can explain it, I will.”

Dean is slow to respond, but when he does, it’s in agreement.

**:::**

Late in the afternoon on New Year’s day, Castiel finds himself at the top of Novak Hill – a hill he and Jimmy claimed as their own when they were seven or eight years old. From the top, one can see much of the city below or hide in the outcropping of trees that surround the edges. It’s where they spent a good portion of their childhood when Castiel wasn’t too afraid to leave the house and Naomi – or their Nanny of the Month – wasn’t paying enough attention to wonder where they’d gone.

They were twelve when they carved their names in a tree they called Old Joshua. Castiel had felt guilty immediately afterwards, and Jimmy had hugged him while he’d cried for the poor tree Castiel just knew they’d hurt.

Old Joshua – and their initials – are still there to this day.

Castiel sits crosslegged in front of the tree, running his fingers lightly along the marred bark where his and Jimmy’s initials reside, smiling to himself when Jimmy’s twelve-year-old laughter sounds in his memory.

“I’m sorry I’ve stayed away for so long,” Castiel mutters, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the tree’s trunk. A quiet breeze blows through its naked branches, sending them trembling and creaking. “I’ve just been so-” he pauses, not wanting to define the root of what he’s been feeling towards Jimmy since his passing. He can’t, however, ignore the fact that he has more to say to Jimmy than _I’m in love with Dean_ , and that if he’s completely honest with himself, he came here for more reasons than one. He came here to make things right and to move on. “I’ve just been so angry with you.”

“I know you didn’t choose to leave me,” Castiel continues, his palm pressed flat against the crudely carved J.N. “But I feel abandoned all the same. You were my anchor and without you I- I drifted. There are times I fear I put too much responsibility on you when we were children.” Castiel takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And I came to say I’m sorry and to ask for your forgiveness.”

He imagines Jimmy sitting across from him where Old Joshua is, mirroring Castiel’s form and listening with eyes gentle. _You don’t need to apologize, Cas, you just need to let go. You have my forgiveness, always._

A tear slides down Castiel’s cheek leaving a warm tear track in its wake. “I also came to tell you about Dean.” At this he smiles. “Dean, he’s my- boyfriend feels like such a loose term; he’s more to me than that. But he takes care of me, Jimmy, in a way I think you’d approve of. He loves me so much, and I- I love him, too.” Castiel breathes the words, the weight that’s been pressing on his chest dissipating almost immediately. Saying them out loud for the first time feels good, right, and it gives Castiel hope that he’ll be able to say them aloud to Dean, too.

“For a long time I think a part of me was afraid that if I admitted that it would somehow take the place of my love for you or fill the hole you left in me, replace you. But I was foolish to think that, I see that now. So yes. I love Dean. And I wanted you to know that. I also wanted you to know that I miss you and love you, too. I will always love you. But I know now it’s okay to love Dean, too.

“I also wanted to tell you I’m going to let go of the anger and hurt I’ve felt because of your death. I understand now that doesn’t mean I’m forgetting you or discounting our time together. It just means I’m holding on to your memory while making more of my own. I hope you’ll understand.” As soon as he says it, he knows Jimmy does understand, has probably wanted that for Castiel all along.

He sits in silence for a long time, listening to the breeze, pressing warmth into the tree’s bark, remembering Jimmy, and letting the feeling of contentment wash over him.

When he eventually makes his way back down the hill some time later, he feels lighter than he has in almost two years.


	21. Chapter 21

Bobby Singer’s house rests on a large dusty lot stuffed to the brim with decrepit cars and smelling heavily of dirt and motor oil. It’s strange to think Dean spends so much of his time here and Castiel’s only seeing it for the first time nearly six months after their first meeting, but then the opportunity hasn’t really presented itself until now either.

And when Bobby had invited Castiel over for dinner it had been a stilted and uncomfortable conversation. But standing here now, in front of the peeling blue siding and thickly cobwebbed windows, the property feels familiar, almost like Castiel can feel the parts of Dean that have made the home what it is today.

“Dean ain’t here yet,” Bobby grumbles when he opens the door to Castiel’s knock. He looks gruff even through the screen door, and Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting.

“Alright.”

Awkward silence curls around them for a beat before Bobby pulls the screen open and eyes Castiel. “You thinkin’ of becoming my new lawn ornament or what? Come in.”

“You don’t have a lawn,” Castiel points out smartly, following the older man inside.

Bobby makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, motioning towards the old couch resting just under a large window that looks out onto the lot. “Have a seat, smartass.”

Castiel is quick to obey, settling stiffly onto the faded floral cushions. “I apologize, Mr. Singer, I didn’t mean to-”

“Mr. Singer, huh?” Bobby cuts him off with a bellowing chuckle. “You always this well mannered, or are you just trying to make a good impression?”

“I-” Bobby waves him off and meanders into the kitchen, opening a fridge that’s seen better days and bending to pull two beers off the shelf while speaking over his shoulder.

“Listen, kid, Dean loves you? I love you. ‘S how it works around here.” Bobby’s standing in front of the couch now, looking down at Castiel as he offers him a beer. “Only thing you should be worried about ‘s if you do somethin’ to lose Dean’s respect, you understand?”

Castiel reaches for the beer. “I understand.” The man may be abrupt, but Castiel can appreciate his straightforwardness.

Bobby drops himself into a chair behind an overcrowded desk and peers at Castiel overtop the books piled precariously around him. They drink in silence for a beat while Castiel looks around the room and takes it all in.

“Did Dean tell you he loves me?” he questions eventually because while Dean’s not shy about sharing that detail with Castiel, he doesn’t seem the type to go making everyone else in his life privy to it.

“Didn’t need to,” Bobby grunts around his beer bottle, “I’ve known for awhile now, seen it in the way he looks atcha. I assume he’s told you?”

Castiel nods slowly, eyes trained on Bobby’s face.

Bobby snorts. “Finally.”

They’re silent again, Castiel relaxing into his seat and Bobby’s shoulders falling comfortably as the tension they were holding eases.

“Dean says you practically raised him and Sam,” Castiel affords before taking another sip of his beer. His chest grows warm as he watches Bobby’s face soften at the edges, his eyes go humble.

“Just gave the boys a place to stay ‘s all.”

“Regardless, whatever part you had to play in his life, it was a good one.”

“There you go trying to butter me up again.” Bobby tugs at the bill of his cap, pulling it low on his head then raising it again, and Castiel flashes him with a small smile.

“Actually,” he says, running his fingers along the soft worn fabric stretched over the arm of the couch, “I was wondering if you could share any stories of what Dean was like as a child?”

At this Bobby lets out a laugh, settling back into his seat and grinning at Castiel from across the room. “Where do I start?”

“With the most embarrassing, preferably.”

~

When Dean bangs through the screen door, Bobby and Castiel are seated next to one another on the couch with numerous photo albums spread out around them. They both look to where Dean’s standing in the entryway with his face pulled into a pout.

“Oh this can’t be good,” he mutters, traipsing into the living room and looming over the two of them. “Shoulda known the two of you couldn’t be trusted alone together.”

Bobby shoots Castiel a knowing glance and stands. “I’ll go fire up the grill.”

Dean watches him leave with a shake of his head. “Coward,” he mumbles, dropping into the spot Bobby had just vacated.

“So,” Castiel says holding the photo album out for Dean to see. The pictures are of Dean working on the Impala in Bobby’s garage. Bobby is standing next to him with a scowl on his face – one Castiel recognizes all too readily – and Sam’s just behind them, a can of Coke to his lips and a smile on his face. John, Castiel’s told, had snapped the picture. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t always the smurf-haired,  "guyliner"-wearing man you are today?” He flourishes the statement with air quotes around Dean's beloved term  _ guyliner _ .

“I haven’t worn eyeliner in at least a month.”

Castiel smirks at Dean, waiting for a response, and it isn’t long before he gets one. Dean huffs at him, flipping the page in the photo album revealing a set of he and Sam standing at the edge of a dock with fishing poles, both their lines bobbing in the water below them.

“After my dad died, I started experimenting with my look because- I don’t know why really, I guess I was just… looking for something?”

“It’s hard to know who you are after you’ve lost someone,” Castiel agrees.

Dean shrugs. “I might not even have known before he died. My whole life I’d done everything according to his standard. Dad wore plaid and leather, so I wore plaid and leather; Dad listened to rock-n-roll, so I listened to rock-n-roll; he solved his problems with whiskey and repression, so I did, too. It wasn’t until after he died that I really started to wonder if I was even being me or if there was even a me to be.

“The piercings and the hair color and the clothes, I guess it was my rebellion. Plus you know how I do with the whole staring thing. Before I started wearing all this shit people stared at me ‘cause I was the guy with no parents and a kid to take care of. At least with the colored hair and everything, I understood why people were staring, y’know?”

Castiel nods. He does know. After Jimmy’s death his shield had been drugs and alcohol, Dean’s had been his appearance.

“It’s your armor,” Castiel states quietly.

A smile tugs at Dean’s lips. “Sounds kind of awesome when you put it like that.”

Castiel sways into Dean’s space so he can press his lips to Dean’s cheek. “ _ You’re _ awesome.”

They thumb through the photo albums until Bobby hollers at them to come eat. They’re all sitting down with burgers on their plates when Sam lumbers in, out of breath and looking flustered.

“Did I miss dinner?” He eyes the three of them gathered around the table, face lighting up when he realizes he’s made it.

“Sammy’s man bun, though,” Dean comments around a bite of burger, “ain’t no good explanation for that.”

~

“What would you like for your birthday?” Castiel wonders on their way home. The Impala is warm, hot air blowing on his cheeks and feet, and Castiel’s belly is filled to the brim with burgers and pie. Dinner with Bobby had gone well, and it’s left Castiel feeling content.

“Sex,” Dean quips immediately. “Lot’s of it. All day long.”

Despite the darkness surrounding them, Castiel rolls his eyes. “As if you’re deprived of sex.”

“Oh, I know I’m not deprived, sex in the Winchester-Edlund home is bounteous. Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna ask for more though.” Dean flashes him a coy grin, and Castiel has the urge to roll his eyes a second time.

“Fine,” he concedes instead, meeting Dean’s wolfish gaze with one he hopes to be placating. “Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“You’re relentless.”

Dean chuckles, flicking on his blinker to make a left-hand turn. “I know.”

**:::**

Castiel paces the floor, his stomach a mess of knots. Dean was supposed to meet him ten minutes ago, and he isn’t answering any of Castiel’s texts. 

Originally Castiel had been grateful for the extra time, taking advantage of it to make sure things were perfect, but now he’s just getting worried.

When the rumble of the Impala sounds outside, Castiel practically dashes to the door despite its sound signaling Dean is just fine. When he opens the door though and sees Dean standing on the other side of the threshold looking nervous as all get out, Castiel’s anxiety melts, and he smiles, welcoming Dean inside the record shop.

“It’s a good thing you give good head,” Castiel quips, “because I find tardiness otherwise intolerable.”

“Dude, even on my birthday you’re gonna give me shit?”

Castiel smirks. “Especially on your birthday.”

“Noted.” The scent of Dean’s soap is wafting off of him in waves, his hair styled neat and his face free of makeup - he always looks scrubbed clean after a shift at the fire station. “What’s all this about?” He glances over Castiel’s shoulder, eyeing the small folding table set up in the middle of the store and topped with two plates, some candles, and a steaming pizza box.

“It’s about you.” Castiel takes Dean’s hand and tugs him inside, closing and locking the door behind them. When he turns back to Dean, it’s to greet him with a kiss and mutter  _ happy birthday _ against Dean’s mouth. He pulls away with a chuckle when Dean’s stomach let’s loose an angry growl.

“Shall we?” Castiel wonders.

Dean nods. “We shall.”

They sit across from one another at the table, ankles tangling amiably as Castiel opens the pizza box and allows Dean a look inside, his stomach twisting happily when Dean let’s out a laugh. “Big Piggy, huh?”

“You said you didn’t hate it.”

“I don’t.”

He urges Dean to pull out the first few slices then takes a couple of his own, offering Dean a sweating beer from the cooler at their feet.

“God, you’re so fucking romantic,” Dean says, flicking off his cap and taking a hearty swig.

Castiel shrugs. “I asked myself ‘what would Dean do?’”

“And this is what you came up with, huh?” When Castiel nods, Dean chuckles. “God,  _ I’m _ so fucking romantic.”

As they eat Castiel asks about Dean’s day at the station. He’s been out on a handful of fires since his initial one, and though Dean’s said they don’t get any easier, he has been handling them better. There are good men and women at the station that help Dean work through his anxiety - sharing stories about some of their own fears - and when they can’t get him out of his own head, Castiel, Sam, and Bobby do their best to do so. More often than not nowadays, Dean comes home cleansed, albeit a little raw, and Castiel has noticed on more than one occasion the growth Dean’s shown since putting in time at the station. 

He’s grown himself, too. Getting back into photography has been a slow and strategic process, but every day Castiel feels his interest returning, the desire to be a part of people’s lives in a way he used to find fulfilling creeping back into his bones. And now, with all his equipment at home, thanks to Dean, it feels like the right thing to do. Jimmy would want him to be doing what he loves. Castiel wants that for himself, too. 

“So, dinner was awesome and dessert was even better – I think pie after pie is my new favorite thing, but are we going to go home to have sex now? Because if I remember right, and I know I do, you promised me marathon birthday sex.”

“And this morning was, what?”

Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “Training.”

Castiel gathers their dishes with a sigh and sets them aside, clearing a spot on the table for Dean’s gifts. “Open your presents first, please.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Dean counters, but Castiel had anticipated this argument and is already prepared for the rebuttal.

“I didn’t  _ have _ to I  _ wanted _ to,” he says, pushing one towards Dean. “Please.”

Dean goes quiet, carefully pulling back the wrapping of a small, navy jewelry box. “Oh god, is this a ring? Are you proposing?”

“Dean.”

Dean smirks. “Gotcha.”

“No, you really didn’t, now will you please open it?”

Dean cooperates, pulling the lid off the box and peering inside. He reaches in with delicate fingers and pulls out a leather cord with a rectangular locket dangling from the end. When he opens the locket, he goes still, staring inside. “It’s my mom,” he eventually mutters, gaze still trained on the locket.

“I thought maybe having her with you would be good luck,” Castiel explains, nervousness coming back full force.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, looking up, his eyes glimmering with tears. “I love it.”

Castiel nods, not knowing what to say, “you’re welcome” feeling so conceited. “I’m glad,” he settles on.

Dean loops the cord around his neck, letting the locket settle cool against his skin just beneath his t-shirt, and Castiel feels warm with happiness.

After that Dean rips into a thrice wrapped bottle of lube (which he waggles in the air delightfully) and then reaches for the lone white envelope still resting on the table.

“Wait,” Castiel says, reaching out to stop Dean. “Maybe- maybe wait until you’re alone?”

Understanding flickers in Dean’s eyes, and his expression softens. “Okay.”

With no more presents to open and Dean’s declaration of being too full for more pie, he eagerly leads Castiel upstairs where they break out Dean’s brand new bottle of lube. 

 

\---

 

Dean slips out of the circle of Castiel’s arms and turns to look at the sleeping man with a soft smile. It isn’t quite midnight yet, but it’s getting close; there’s only about forty five more minutes until Dean’s birthday comes to an end. 

Brushing a kiss against Castiel’s forehead, Dean pulls the still sealed envelope off the nightstand and pads into the bathroom, closing the door behind him before flicking on the light. 

Climbing into the empty bathtub, Dean rests his back against the wall and opens the envelope, its contents never having been far from his thoughts throughout the evening. 

Holding the unfolded paper in his hands, Dean’s fingers tremor as he reads.

_ My dearest Dean, _

**T H E  E N D**


	22. Epilogue

**_2 Years Later_ **

Dean’s heart pounds wildly. This isn’t his first fire and it won’t be his last, but those same First Time Nerves always manipulate their way into his chest when the sirens blare. 

Within a few minutes, Dean’s geared up and jogging towards the truck, Benny and Ellie at his heels. “Heard it’s a big one, boys!” Ellie calls to them, a smile stretched wide on her face. It may be twisted, but Dean understands her excitement. The adrenaline rush that comes with putting out fires is unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced before. 

“Clark Kent meetin’ us there?” Benny asks, climbing into Engine 19 behind Dean. Up until he began his career as a fireman, Dean didn’t think there would ever be a vehicle he’d love as much as Baby. Engine 19 - Darlin’, as he lovingly calls her - showed him just how wrong he was, and while the Impala will always be number one in his heart, Darlin’s shiny red glimmer and strong frame is enough to make him smile every time she’s in view.

Dean tugs on his head set and pulls his seatbelt across his chest, flashing a smile at Benny. The day Castiel got a job photographing for  _ The Columbus Dispatch _ nearly a year and a half ago Benny started calling him Clark Kent, and the nickname has stuck ever since. Castiel scoffs at it every time, but Dean has a feeling the guy secretly likes it. “If he can drag his ass outta bed.”

“Thought he didn’t sleep when you’re out on a fire,” Ellie pipes up over the headset. 

Dean shakes his head. “He doesn’t.” It hadn’t taken long to recognize the trauma Castiel was experiencing every time Dean went out on a fire. He’d been suppressing it, hiding his fear and worry from Dean, but with just a little digging, everything had come tumbling out one day. 

“What if you don’t come home?” he’d asked, shaking and wiping angrily at the tears spilling out over his cheeks. “What if I lose you, too?”

Dean hadn’t given him a response, there wasn’t one, really. The possibility of something happening was always there, but Castiel had assured Dean time and time again that if fighting fires was what he wanted to do, then Castiel would support him, despite his anxieties. So Dean had pulled him close, held him while Castiel had clung to him, and kissed him longer and deeper the next time he’d left on a call.

“I’ll see you soon,” he always told Castiel because goodbye just wasn’t acceptable. 

The nearer they get to the fire, the more Dean’s body trembles with anticipation. He reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edges of the letter he never goes out on a fire without, and tugs it out with a careful hand.

“One of these days you’re gonna tell us what that damn thing says,” Benny quips good-naturedly. The other men and women at the station have seen Dean’s coveted letter more times than they can count, but only Dean has ever read it.

Dean shakes his head, unfolding the paper. “Maybe when you’re older,” he snarks back. 

Benny and Ellie exchange a chuckle, and Dean bows his head to read.

_ My dearest Dean, _

_ I have never been good with words. They’ve always been there, inside my head, but getting them out has often been another story. And I still feel that way; however, I also feel that when you came into my life, when you  _ barged _ in with your tattoos and your brazen language and obscenely colored hair, when you took a chance on me and dared to love me, you gave me a voice. _

_ Perhaps it had been there all along, buried beneath scars unwilling to heal, or simply hiding, remaining out of harm’s way until it was safe to reach the surface, but you never gave up on me, or my voice. _

_ And with all the things that voice has said since then, all the hurtful things, all the apologetic things, all the thoughtful things I have said, there’s one thing I have yet to express, and it is, quite possibly, the most important thing I'll ever say: _

_ I  _ love _ you, Dean Winchester, with all my heart, and I feel so lucky to both be yours and have you as my own. You are my heart, Dean, my strength and my rock, and I know with everything inside of me that I will love you until the day that I die and long after that, too. _

_ Thank you for loving me, Dean. Thank you for teaching me about love, and thank you, Dean, for letting me love you, too. _

_ Yours always, _

_ Castiel _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I've finally had the opportunity to share this with the DeanCas community. Five years ago in July a good friend and I were drunk on Destiel and joking around about some kind of West Side Story AU in which Dean and his "crew" were punks and Castiel and his were hipsters. It was a silly AU we'd constructed after swooning relentlessly over photos of Jensen in his Priestly garb, however it did not remain silly for long. Soon we were asking each other what if this and that happened, what if Castiel was sad, and Dean was broken. What if they found comfort in one another after vicious rounds of hate sex? What if they learned how to cope with their scars despite - perhaps - not feeling totally healed? And then this happened. This 140k words worth of angst, and love, and hate, and sorrow, and life, and I feel incredibly lucky to have been the one to tell this version of Dean and Castiel's story. I've grown quite partial to it in the past several years and it feels resplendent to finally share it.  
> Thank you so much for reading and sharing in this journey with me.  
> x's and o's  
> -Fea  
> (come say hi on [tumblr](https://lemonsorbae.tumblr.com/), too!)


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